Here and Now
by MyPinkCactus
Summary: Nothing will be the same after the group meets Negan.
1. Chapter 1

The images projected through his eyes like a macabre dream. Painful memories he had fought hard to erase and leave in a tiny remote corner of his mind.

But there they were again. He could hear the screams clearly like they were bullets fired in the air, his skin tingling nervously at the sound of the chaos unfolding around him. Soldiers were standing everywhere, holding heavy weapons and shouting orders over the noise of the nervous crowd, but none seemed to listen. The mass hysteria caught everyone. People who once had a normal life, were now running like lost ghosts with the horror reflected in their eyes.

He had landed in the city two hours ago. Theirs was one the latest flights lucky enough to land. He had heard some rumors, coming from the people he had crossed, that some flights were not able to leave the airports. Others, he had been told, didn't even reach their destination.

He tried to grab a cab, but the few he found told him they were out of service while they drove away, leaving him there. He finally was able to convince a middle-aged couple to take him in their car. He offered them some money, but they refused to accept it.

"I'll leave you a couple of blocks away from were you live. We have to pick up our grandson and we don't have much time," the gray-haired man told him.

Of course he had accepted the deal; after all, he had no other choice. But the trip was a stressful nightmare. There were traffic jams everywhere. It took them almost two hours to escape one of the most congested routes, and just a few minutes later, they were blocked again by vehicles moving in every direction.

They were about fifteen minutes away from where they were headed and he was growing impatient, so he thanked the couple and told them he would walk the rest of the way.

"Good luck," he said, before leaving the car.

His heart was pounding in his chest with the fury of a beast, and the sound of helicopters overhead was not helping him to calm his nerves.

He had tried to call Benjamin repeatedly during the past few hours but the lines had been saturated, and at that moment were already dead.

After nearly thirty minutes fighting the masses, he finally arrived to the residential area where he lived. For some stupid reason he had hoped things were better there, so he couldn't help but feel the disappointment when he found out his neighborhood had succumbed to the same bewilderment as every other place.

He was just a couple of houses away from his own, when he stopped in front of the Anderson's. The front door was open and he thought he heard a scream coming from inside. He didn't think twice before entering the house.

He could hear a desperate cry drowned by some strange wrenching moans. There was blood, he saw it as soon as he walked through the door, but he forced himself to ignore it and focus his attention on the cries that seemed to come from the backyard.

He crossed the hallway and the living room up to the garden. Then he stopped. Right there was Leonard Anderson kneeling, in front of Abie's playhouse, like a hungry animal. His body arched unnaturally as he desperately tried to catch whoever was inside. He could barely see anything, but he knew the little girl was there, he could hear her terrified sobbing while she was trying to hide from that man. Her father.

"Leonard, stop!" He shouted.

The man turned around immediately. His eyes, covered by a white gelatinous membrane, looked at him blankly. A deep guttural moan escaped his throat. His skin wrinkled loosely to his features like a piece of cloth. If there was something left from Leonard in that man, he could not recognize it.

He watched the man get up and walk towards him awkwardly, and he stepped back instinctively. They didn't have much information about the virus; all they knew was that once you were affected by it, there was nothing you could do. That was it.

The man who was trying to approach him was only a vague reflection of what he once was. No memories were left in his now dead brain. Leonard didn't remember him, his neighbor, the same way he wasn't able to recognize his own daughter. The man was now a predator moved by a primary instinct, and he had become his prey.

He looked around for anything he could use to defend himself. Then he saw the metal bar from an umbrella stand in a corner. Leonard was getting close, and had spread his arms desperately trying to catch him. It may have been the adrenaline running through his veins, he wasn't sure, but he didn't hesitate sinking the metal bar deep into Leonard's chest. The man groaned heavily, however the action was not enough to end his suffering.

He kicked him in the stomach and Leonard slid over the stick until he fell to the ground. There wasn't much time to think; he was writhing on the floor trying to get up again, so he placed a knee on his injured chest to stop him moving and stuck the bar into Leonard's head.

The sound of broken bones rang in his ears for a few minutes while he watched the lifeless body under him.

He had killed him. He had killed Leonard.

The whisking noise of a helicopter woke him from his trance. He realized that Abie was still inside her playhouse. He rushed over and found the little girl huddled in the farthest corner.

"Abie, honey, are you okay?"

The girl made no gesture, her face hidden under her beautiful long brown hair. It took him a good few minutes to convince her she would be fine, but eventually the girl ended up clinging to his neck.

"It's ok, Abie, it's ok, don't worry." He whispered while carrying her out of the house.

Once outside he put Abie down but she clutched his hand tightly, and both walked briskly to his house, ignoring the convulsed tumult around them.

The first thing he saw when they entered the house was the bloodstain that ran throughout the hardwood floor towards the living room. The horrible yelps were audible from where they were standing. His heart sank and he felt an intense knot strangling his stomach. Abie cowered by his side and squeezed his hand with recognition. He bent down to look into the girl's eyes.

"Hey, hey… don't worry. Everything will be fine. I'm with you." He said, trying to sound calm. Then he opened a small built-in wardrobe beside the entrance and pushed some boxes aside "Wait here. Don't leave until I come back, okay?"

He didn't move until the girl accepted with an almost imperceptible nod. Then he closed the door and walked, slowly following the crimson trail. He carefully dodged a dresser that was in the hallway, leaving behind the memories, pictures where he and Benjamin smiled, looking happy and mostly ignorant of what the future had prepared for them.

The moans turned clearer and more disturbing the closer he got. His body tingled all over, in dreaded anticipation of what awaited him on the other side of that wall, in a place that just a few weeks ago had been a safe haven for them.

Not even the worst of thoughts could have prepared him for what he saw. Next to the glass garden door was the corpse of an unknown man, who had obviously met death for the second time. He imagined Benjamin fighting against him, defending himself, until he had finally managed to kill him, but something went wrong during the struggle. The stranger had hurt him, he could tell from there. On the other side, between the couch and the TV cabinet, Benjamin knelt with his neck completely torn apart. He was on the floor, wearing one of the shirts he had given him, devouring _Emmes_ , the Beagle they had rescued from a kennel together, a couple of years back.

He put a hand over his mouth, trying to silence the pained whimper that slipped from his lips. Benjamin turned around at the sound, face covered in blood. He rose up and started to walk in his direction.

"Ben…" He said, raising his hands in a futile gesture; he knew that was not enough to stop the creature that had replaced one of the most important people in his life.

He stepped back and stumbled against a piece of furniture. Benjamin's shrieks were strumming the air like knives.

"Ben... Ben…" He repeated with a broken voice. "Please stop, it's me… Paul…" He was wasting his time. _That_ was not Ben and he was more that aware of it.

Only a table separated them now, such a simple object was all that prevented that man, who he had loved more than anything for years, from jumping on him like a hungry wolf the same way he had _Emmes_.

He looked around quickly and grasped the fireplace poker, and with a strong movement, so fast he could barely register himself, he sank the object into Ben's head.

What happened next was an amalgam of vague and blurry images. He remembered open the wardrobe where Abie was waiting as he had asked. She was holding in her hands the book of fables he used to read her during the nights she spent with them. He had asked Abie about her mother but she did not answer and he didn't talk about it ever again.

The next thing he remembered was walking aimlessly with the girl in his arms. Tears blurred his view, but he was very aware that the hysteria around them was even more fervent. However, they moved through the crowd as if no one else existed, as if they were alone. And they were definitely alone.

 _"_ _Jesus?... Jesus"_

"Hey... Paul!"

The sound of Andy's voice brought him abruptly to reality. He looked up and saw his partner approaching him with a frown.

"Something wrong? I've been calling you."

"Really? I didn't hear you, sorry."

Andy tilted his head, not convinced with the answer, but he didn't press.

"I've found nothing upstairs," he said wearily.

"I haven't seen anything interesting here, either."

"I knew this trip would be a waste of time."

"Nothing is a waste of time until _we_ make it a waste of time, Andy. We haven't been lucky, that's all." Paul let out a little sigh. "But, yeah... we should get back home."

Andy nodded and walked away immediately. Paul followed his gaze for a few seconds and then he laid his blue eyes back on the book of fables in his hands. It was the same issue Abie had loved so much, with the colored animals on the cover.

"Damn luck," he murmured.

He put the book back where he had found it, and left the building.


	2. Chapter 2

They barely exchanged a couple of sentences on their way back. Paul liked to talk; he was interested in the conversation because he thought it was a good way to discover what was behind the behavior of some people. But he also appreciated silence, and at that moment neither of them seemed uncomfortable with the lack of communication.

He had no intention of pressuring Andy. Since the incident with the Saviors his attitude had changed radically, and had become more reserved and thoughtful. He didn't blame him. Andy had always been very collaborative; he didn't think twice when he volunteered to be one of those transporting half of the provisions that now belonged to the Saviors. But what happened that night had affected them in a very different way.

He knew that Andy, like many other inhabitants of Hilltop, was not satisfied with the agreement Gregory had reached with Negan. But he, and the rest of them, understood why he did it, and they had accepted it very aware that at the time there was no way they could fight back.

Nobody doubted that Gregory was simply trying to safeguard the welfare of the community. However, they felt that he had yielded too quickly in the negotiations and now they had to work twice as hard to subsist at the same time they fulfilled the unjust debt they had acquired.

Paul was not pleased with the deal either. He had always thought that Gregory had opted for the easiest and cowardly settlement. He hated to see his people break their backs to obey the demands of a sociopath who extorted them as if they were scum. Paul also wanted the peace and security for Hilltop, but not at any price. He worried that, in light of recent events, their new friendship with Alexandria would complicate things for them. He felt, in the depths of his being, that the calm, reigning in that moment was temporary, and that sooner or later they would have to confront issues for which they were not at all prepared. Paul knew it, and Andy did too.

He took a glimpse of his traveling companion. Andy rested his head on the window and looked ahead absorbed by his own thoughts.

"There is a town in the north," Paul said, breaking the silence. "It's fairly large. I haven't wasted much time looking around because there's nobody left, but it might be interesting to look for supplies. Maybe we'll get lucky and find something, like a new sweatshirt for Eduardo? That red one he's always wearing is going to start walking on it's own soon..."

Andy curled the corner of his mouth silently thanking his friend's attempt to lift his spirits.

"We should go back home. We're too tired to spend another night out here."

"Andy" Paul said with a quiet voice "I'm worried too, but I'm trying not to think about events that are still out of ours hands"

"I thought you always were ahead of everything"

"What do you mean?"

"You are always on alert."

"That's not true."

"Yes it is, and you know it; it must be exhausting. The truth is, I actually admire your ability to remain calm despite whatever's going on, or at least to pretend that nothing affects you. Everyone feels safe when you're around. They trust you. And sometimes it seems unfair, because I have the feeling that you care about people more than they care about you."

"Andy–"

"I don't mean they don't really care, it's pretty obvious that you are one of the most beloved members of the community. But they put you on such a high pedestal that sometimes, I'm sure, they think you're immortal or something like that" he laughed slightly, then his face showed a deep uneasiness "They have become very dependent, and that's a big problem. I can't imagine what would become of them if anything happened to you one day."

"We will be fine."

"They will discover we were there, and that Gregory's still alive–"

"Andy… Nothing will happen" Paul interrupted him firmly "Now we know what to expect from them, and the Hilltop walls are strong–"

"Yes, and they are also made of wood."

"You're a real doomsdayer, you know that?" He asked mockingly and then gave him a reassuring smile "Look, I appreciate your words, but I want you to know that I don't do what I do expecting something in return. I need that freedom; I don't want to tie myself down to anything. I'm not even scared of loneliness. I enjoy the runs and I learn a lot about the world we've left behind, and about the people that still remain here, with us." He paused briefly. "That doesn't mean I don't enjoy good company; I like people. I like to talk, making conversation... It's like two sides of the same coin. It's not all black and white, right? But if there's one thing I know for sure, it's that I don't expect a reward of any kind, Andy."

"That's bullshit. We all like to know there's someone willing to do anything for us. Even Paul "Jesus" Monroe has someone waiting for him."

Paul smiled.

"I'll rest for a couple of days," He said changing the subject pointedly "then I'll go to that town to see what I can find, if you want to join me."

"I'll think about it."

They didn't talk much during the rest of the trip. They had driven for much of the afternoon, and the sun was already seeking a shelter behind the mountains, tinting the few clouds that crossed the horizon with oranges and purples.

It didn't take them long to see the high wooden walls appear among the trees surrounding their home. They left the high road and drove down the muddy road that led them to the main entrance.

"You see that?" Paul said suddenly. Andy stared at him absently. "There's no one on lookout."

"What?" Andy leaned forward to get a better look.

Paul stopped the car a few meters from the entrance and got out, followed by Andy. They walked slowly, scanning the area carefully in case they saw or noticed anything out of the ordinary. But just the hum of the birds could be heard and that was what disturbed Paul the most.

They were a few steps from the huge steel doors when Kal appeared above their heads.

"Why is no one on watch?" Paul asked somewhat irritated.

Kal disappeared again behind the high wooden poles with no answer. Paul and Andy looked at each other puzzled. Then they heard a click and with a high-pitched whine the doors started to move.

"Take charge of the car" Paul said.

Andy obeyed walking away, and Paul waited until he saw Kal appear at the other side.

"What's going on?" He asked approaching him quickly.

Kal stepped aside and made a gesture towards the RV that was parked in the road leading to the big mansion.

Paul felt a twinge in his stomach. It was obvious that something was wrong.

"Apparently the Saviors ambushed them" Kal explained as they walked together "They killed one and–"

"Who?" Paul asked, stopping abruptly.

"The Korean guy, the husband of the pregnant girl. She's in the hospital trailer, she's sick, they think it may be a problem with the baby…"

"Fuck…"

"And then that other guy, the one with the vest with the wings? He was shot in the shoulder. He didn't look good…"

Paul tried to process the information with the serenity that characterized him, but the truth was that deep inside there was an icy chill running all over his body.

Andy joined them with a confused look.

"Who else is here?" The scout kept asking.

"I'm not really sure. Everything became a bit chaotic as soon as they arrived. Some went with the injured, the rest… I don't know. Their leader–"

"Rick."

"Yes, that's it, Rick. He's in the house, I don't know if someone else is in there, but you should go, Jesus, that man is not in the right state to talk to someone like Gregory."

Paul left Andy and Kal behind, and strode firmly to Barrington House. From the great hall he could hear footsteps on the floor above, however it was the deaf echoes of voices coming from the main office what really caught his attention.

"That's all I can do for now" Gregory was saying when he entered the room, not bothering to knock.

Everyone turned to look at him. Gregory was standing by the window, behind the wooden desk. Rick sat in a chair opposite him. His pale skin looked ill and he had red lines under his eyes framing a completely blank stare.

Paul noticed a movement to his right; he saw Michonne was sitting in one of the armchairs decorating the center of the room. She didn't look much better than his partner, but he was glad to see her there. Otherwise he was sure that Rick would not have taken any guff from his self-appointed boss.

"Jesus! Thank God you're back. As you can see–"

"Yeah," he interrupted, "Kal has already tried to explain what happened."

"A tragedy" Gregory pointed.

Rick fixed his eyes on the floor as Michonne let out a sigh, revealing that she was still processing what had happened.

"As I was telling them before you came–"

"Gregory, I'd like to talk to them in private," Paul said, cutting off the gray-haired man for the second time.

Gregory made an exaggerated gesture with his head, as if he hadn't heard him clearly.

"Are you kicking me out of my office?"

"No, I'm not. I'm asking you kindly to give me a moment with them."

"Yeah, sure… anyway, it doesn't matter" He said, waving a hand in the air and then placing it on his belly. "I'm tired, I'm still having a hard time moving around, you know… either way, I'd like to talk to you when you're done here. I'll be in my room."

"I'm sorry," Paul said as soon as they were alone.

Rick lowered his head dejectedly, and moved it from side to side expressing a pain he was not yet able to understand. Michonne rose quickly and squatted beside him resting her hands on the pale cheeks of her friend and lover.

"It's my fault, it's my fault…"

He repeated again and again.

"Rick, listen to me, this situation has completely gotten out of hand. No one is to blame here, there's just a lot of ignorance on our part. We were wrong, that's true, but we all agreed to this."

Michonne fixed here black eyes into Paul's looking for some help. He pulled up a chair for Michonne to sit down and then he bent in the same place she was before.

"Rick, blaming yourself for what happened is a waste of time. This is how their group works; this community has been under their belt since the beginning. If not now, it would have happened eventually, they would have found you and the result would have been the same. It's the way they do things. They're the only ones to blame here."

"Remember they captured a member of this community, and they sent someone to kill Gregory, and they were also willing to kill Sasha, Abraham and Daryl," Michonne added, laying a hand on his knee. "They probably knew about us already. We took action first, took advantage–"

"And how did that help us?" Rick interrupted quietly.

Paul and Michonne shared a look.

"I think it's best if we leave this conversation for another time" Paul said "It's been a difficult night and you all need to rest."

"No" Rick said firmly. "We need to return to Alexandria. Tell them what happened, make sure they're all okay."

"He should wait" Michonne said.

"We must go back."

Paul stood up.

"No, you're not going anywhere, not now. Give you a break, if only for a few hours. Then, tomorrow, you can take the RV and go back home. Right now, the most sensible thing you can do is get some sleep. Do it for your sake and for theirs."

Michonne reached Rick's hand and squeezed it hard, letting him know that she was agreeing with Paul.

* * *

"I think you have everything you need," Paul said once he showed them the room where they were going to spend the night "but if you need something, whatever it is, just ask. I'll go find some food and drinks."

"I'm going with you," Michonne said.

They left Rick, who was lying on the bed with all his clothes still on, and went down to the pantry next to the large main kitchen on the first floor.

"What will happen now?" Michonne asked distractedly "Are we going to let them control everything? Are we going to let them manipulate us? To take everything we had fought so hard to have?

Paul let out a loud sigh.

"God, I hope not. I've seen this community undermined because of them and it's not fair. The worst part of all is the frustration of not being able to do something about it." He paused and his face became the reflection of guilt. "I wish I could have helped you more, offered you more information…"

"You did what you could, Jesus. And you did help; you risked your life, and the safety of your own community, when you went there. You saved Glenn and Heath. The deal was already sealed. You didn't have to go there, but you did. And we are grateful for that."

"There is nothing to be thankful for. We are together in this."

"Yes, we are," Michonne said with a bitter smile.

"I know everything is all too fresh, and the urge for vengeance is probably seething, but if we have learned something from all of this, it's that we need to be much more careful. We're still in the dark, and it's important to learn more about them, to study their movements and habits, before we draw any plan to act."

"This will end in a war." Michonne said uneasily.

"Probably, yes."

Michonne put her hands on her face; she was physically and mentally exhausted. Paul opened a cupboard and took a small box from which he extracted two infusion bags.

"Here, Lime Blossom. It expired last year, but something hot may help," he said softly.

Michonne smiled, posed the two bags on the tray they had prepared with some food and water, and muttered a _thank you_.

"What are you going to do now?" Michonne asked once they were in the hall, in front of the stairs. "Are you going to talk to Gregory?"

Paul shook his head.

"Gregory can wait. They probably need help at the trailers."

"I'll lend a hand."

"There's no need, Michonne. You are tired. Go and get some sleep."

"That won't be easy."


	3. Chapter 3

A stab of pain ran across his arm and stopped him like a punch to the chest. He tried to open his eyes in response to the sudden pain, but he felt a heavy burden on his eyelids.

He put his left hand to his face and rubbed his eyes in an attempt to clear the sleep from his mind until he finally felt the light passing through his lashes, reaching his pupils.

Daryl looked around with tired eyes, face contorted with confusion, while he tried to adjust to the light of day. The room he was in was not too big, but it had two huge windows that let the sunlight illuminate everything. There were paintings with heavy frames adorning the walls, and the few pieces of furniture he saw scattered around the room looked very expensive. He had no doubt whatsoever that he was inside Barrington House.

He had been aware when they arrived at Hilltop desperately seeking help, but once they helped him out of the RV his vision grew blurred and confused, until everything went completely black.

He had no idea how he'd ended up in that room or how long he had been prostrate on the bed, but he felt a deep ache in his muscles. The worst thing, however, was the dryness that tore his throat. His tongue was stuck into his palate and thousands of knives welcomed each gulp.

He needed a glass of water.

He glanced at the nightstand to his right but there were only a couple of bandages and a lamp. He had better luck on the other side of the bed. There was a jug of water and a glass. It was in that moment, when he tried to reach for the glass container, that Daryl realized he was not alone in the room. His heart began pounding furiously for a few seconds until he recognized Paul Monroe's figure.

Hilltop's scout was half-reclined on an armchair, tucked in a shadowy corner next to one of the large windows. He sat with his legs stretched out before him, his head resting against the backrest, in a position that didn't seem particularly comfortable, but apparently he was sound asleep.

Daryl didn't want to wake the man everyone called _Jesus_ , because of a simple glass of water. So he tried again to reach the jug. He crawled as he could over the mattress and stretched his left arm. He managed to touch the handle when he felt sudden pang on his right shoulder. The pain made him flinch so hard he hit the jug, making it fall and crash against the wooden floor.

Jesus jumped on the armchair.

"What was that? What happened?" He asked surprised and somewhat disoriented.

"The jug broke" Daryl said hoarsely "I was thirsty"

The scout rubbed his face, still half asleep, and then looked at Daryl with a tired expression.

"Were you or are you?"

"I am"

Jesus observed the wet stain covered with broken glasses next to the bed, then he laid his eyes on the archer again, and he got up leaving the room. He returned just a few minutes later with a new jug.

"Can you sit or do you need help?"

"I can do it"

Daryl moved into a sitting position not able to hide the wince of pain contracting his face. Jesus placed a cushion so he could lean back more comfortably and then filled the glass with some water.

"Here"

Daryl drank in short sips allowing the liquid to slide smoothly down his throat.

"How do you feel?" Jesus asked, putting the glass back on the nightstand.

"How long have I been here?"

"At hilltop or in this room?"

Daryl grunted. It was not that difficult to answer that fucking question, right?

Yes, he knew Jesus was a good conversationalist; he had an admirable ability to speak with whomever he wanted without the typical awkward silences of those who don't know how to maintain a relaxed chat. In fact, he had come to nickname him the _bearded chatterbox_. However, Daryl was taciturn, especially if he didn't give two shits about the person he was talking with. And in that moment he had neither the strength nor the courage to strike up a conversation.

"You arrived three days ago," Jesus said aware of the archer's impatience "You were moved here two days ago. We were told that you were shot at close range, so the bullet passed through the flesh easily. The doctor only had to stitch the wound. You did lose a lot of blood, though."

Daryl closed his eyes.

"What about the rest? Maggie…"

"Maggie's illness turned out to be appendicitis. Harlan –the doctor– did a good job and the baby is out of danger. She feels weak, but it has more to do with her physical and mental fatigue than the surgery itself. Rick went back to Alexandria with a group of people yesterday morning."

Daryl opened his eyes not very happy with the news.

"They left?"

"No need for everyone to stay here, and there are important things to do in Alexandria."

"I should have gone with them."

"For what? Right now you're better off here. Also, how do you think you were going to endure a one day trip in a RV, when you can barely move on this bed?" Jesus shook his head as if the mere thought of something like that was incredible stupid. Then he added: "Anyway, not all of them are gone. Eugene, Rosita and Aaron have stayed to help. Do you want more water?"

"No."

Without another word, Jesus walked around the bed and left the room for the second time. When he returned back, he was holding a dustpan and a hand brush. Then he crouched beside the bed and started to clean the mess.

"Didn't mean to break it," Daryl said with embarrassment, then he sighed, tilting his head "Why were you here anyway? Did you spend the night on that chair?"

"Yes, I did."

"Why?"

"Why, what?"

"Why sleep here?"

"I'm doing someone a favor."

Jesus put the dustpan aside, and then he opened a closet at the back of the room. He returned with a piece of cloth and a bowl, bent down again and began to sop the water off the floor.

Jesus mumbled something under his breath that Daryl couldn't understand, but he didn't care. As far as he was concerned, the _chatterbox_ could get under the bed and never come out again. He threw his head back against the cushions and closed his eyes.

Suddenly a door opened, and both of them turned their attention to the stranger who entered the room. Daryl didn't recognize the man moving around slowly, as if he was trying not to make much noise, but he stopped as soon as noticed there were two pair of eyes on him.

His gaze traveled from Jesus to Daryl.

"Oh! I'm glad to see you're awake," He said with a big smile.

He set his briefcase on the nightstand, pulled up a chair beside the bed, sat down and placed a hand on Daryl's forehead. He left his hand there for a few seconds, and then he lowered it to his cheek. The contact made the archer so uncomfortable that his body stiffened completely.

"You're not the doctor" Daryl muttered.

The man noticed the suspicious look the archer was giving him and withdrew his hand immediately.

"I'm sorry, I forgot you've not been very aware of what's been going on for the past two days" he remarked, trying to offer him a reassuring smile. "My name is Alex, I'm helping Harlan, the doctor."

Alex was more or less the same age as Jesus. He was a rather skinny guy with angular features. His short, dark blond hair was matted and there were visible signs of tiredness on his face, enhanced by the dark circles under his big blue eyes. The dimple on his chin was his most notable feature.

"Aren't you a bit early?" Jesus said, not moving from where he was crouched down.

"I fell asleep the moment I hit the bed; I'm fine," he said, moving around the bed to join him. "What happened?"

"Some water… but I've cleaned most of it."

"What about that glass? Is the jug broken?"

Jesus didn't answer the question; he just got up and left the bowl and the cloth on one of the drawers.

"Did you get some sleep?" Alex asked him carefully.

"You would have found me drooling like a St. Bernard if not for the jug."

That was not an accusation, the archer understood that immediately, it looked more like Jesus was trying to dispel the guilt reflected in the nurse's eyes.

Daryl watched the scene with more interest than he was even aware of.

"How are you feeling?" Alex asked, turning his attention back to Daryl "Are you in pain?"

"I'm fine."

"His shoulder is hurting him," Jesus pointed out, "but he doesn't seem like the type who would admit to it."

Daryl muttered something unintelligible. Not only he had to endure one chatterbox, now he had to listen to two of them.

"Does it hurt now that you're resting?"

"Does when I move."

"Oh well, that's normal" Alex said. "The fever is what worries me the most right now, you may have an infection and we're running low on antibiotics" the nurse huffed. "Maggie also needs meds we don't have, it's not urgent but–"

"I'll go out in a couple of days" Jesus said "I can change my plan, leave tomorrow and try to find everything you need."

"Paul, no" Alex grabbed Jesus's arm and both walked away to the other end of the room "You just got back three days ago and you've been working nonstop. You shouldn't even have spent the night here. Look at you, you need to rest."

"I'll rest later, this is important."

"Yes, of course it is, but they can organize another group."

"Yeah, because that went well before… Look, I'll go see how Maggie is doing, and then I'll go to bed and stay there until morning, ok?

The nurse sighed folding his arms, it was obvious he didn't like that idea, but he didn't bother to say otherwise.

Daryl was trying to turn a deaf ear to the conversation between the two, because it was much more personal than it might seem. So in an attempt to distract himself from the two men, he reached out his left arm trying to grab the glass.

"Wait a second," Alex said hurrying to the bed and handing him the glass.

"Instead of havin' a couple of nannies cackling in my room, wouldn't it be easier to leave things nearby, so no one needs to ride my ass every time I need a sip of water?"

Alex leaned back, frowning, clearly surprised by the sudden outburst of sincerity coming from the archer. Behind him, however, Jesus let out a slight chuckle.

"I bet it was easier to take care of him when he was completely out of it," he said at the foot of the bed.

"Laugh all you want, prick. I'd like to see you in this situation."

"Who says I haven't been?" Jesus replied, hardening his tone. "But you're right, I wouldn't want to be in your place. However, I'll tell you that I'm not feeling any kind of compassion for you right now, Dixon. In fact, if it depended on me, I wouldn't hesitate to shoot you right up the other shoulder at this very moment. Perhaps, when you wake up again, you'll show some more gratitude for those who are working tirelessly and selflessly, so you can get that arse of yours out of this bed."

Alex coughed nervously and cleared his throat in an attempt to divert the attention away, hoping to dispel the tension that seemed to be increasing between them. He walked to the nightstand where he had left his small briefcase.

"I'll give you a muscle relaxant to calm the pain until the doctor comes to see you and determines your treatment. We'll change the bandage after he takes a look at the wound."

Daryl accepted the nurse's words but he didn't take his eyes off Jesus. He was moving around the room picking up some things, including the dustpan with rest of the jug he broke. Then he walked towards the door.

"I'm leaving." He said.

Before he even could put his fingers on the doorknob, Alex reached out a hand and grabbed his wrist to stop him.

"Will I see you before you to leave?" he asked quietly.

"Sure."

Jesus gave him a warm smile and left the room.

That simple gesture didn't go unnoticed by Daryl. Not that he hadn't realize already by the brief conversation they had, that the relationship between them was hiding something more than the comradery of two people who have been living in the same place for a long time. That slight touch expressed much more than the words they'd shared, and he couldn't help but feel even more uncomfortable than he already was.

He was a stranger here, and for a moment he felt alone. He needed to see his people; he needed to feel their closeness. And above all, he needed to know they were okay.


	4. Chapter 4

Daryl walked down the hall to the room where the nurse –Alex, he reminded himself– had told him they determined Maggie would stay. He said, without the need to press him too much, that they had selected a room facing east, thus the sun would bathe the walls for much of the day, making it a warm and comfortable place.

Stiffly, he walked between the squares of light coming through the windows. It had been two days since he had regained his lucidity, and from what he was told, the wound seemed to be healing better than expected. In fact, the doctor decided to remove the bandage that immobilized his arm, and now he was wearing a simple sling. He still felt some discomfort, but it was nothing compared to the pain from the previous days.

The door was ajar, and he could hear the fuzzy sound of voices coming from inside, so he decided to enter without knocking.

The room was no bigger than his, although the distribution was slightly different. This was a U-shaped room, so from where he was standing he could only see the foot of the bed that was set next to the windows. He still could hear very clearly the voices coming from the other end of the wall.

"Then he started milking the cow like he was wringing out rags…" Daryl recognized Jesus's voice. "The poor animal. The best part of it all was when he finally got milk, he started to make this face; he said the smell was making him nauseous. It was truly a spectacle."

Maggie's warm laughter softened his heart. He poked his head in and saw Jesus sitting on a chair beside her. He was leaning forward so he blocked the view of his friend.

Jesus turned around to look at him before Daryl could even warn them of his presence.

"Oh! Look, someone has come to see you!"

None of them looked particularly great, the exhaustion settled in every small wrinkle on their faces, but after six uncertain and confusing days, each was deeply relieved to be able to look into the other's eyes.

"Daryl…" Maggie said with a huge smile on her face.

He suddenly found himself speechless.

"Ok, I'll leave you alone" Jesus said, noticing the archer's sudden reserve.

He squeezed Maggie's hand affectionately and then got up to leave the room, walking past Daryl and giving him what appeared to be a conciliatory smile. That chatterbox had to be the most imperturbable person to cross his path for sure.

Once they were alone, Daryl sat in the empty chair left by Jesus and stared intently at Maggie. She looked better than the last time he had seen her, but her eyes reflected a painful melancholy.

"How are you?" he managed to ask.

Maggie didn't answer, she looked toward the window to her right, making an effort to control the emotions welling up, but the pain was too strong. She put her hands to her face trying to hide herself, but it was useless.

"No, Maggie, no, no. Please…"

Daryl leaned forward and hugged his friend, who cried inconsolably on his shoulder.

It broke his heart to see her like that, so helpless, but it was even more painful to remember why she was in this situation. Glenn was one of the noblest people he had ever met, and he would have done anything to protect Maggie and his family. Unfortunately, he didn't have the opportunity to choose, his life was taken by a stupid stroke of bad luck, and the wound he left in the group would be impossible to repair.

After a few minutes, much calmer, Maggie broke away from the archer and leaned back on the pillow.

"How are you?" she asked.

"Asked first."

Maggie offered him a wan smile as she wiped the tears wetting her cheeks. Then she sighed.

"I'm sad, angry, tired, relieved, happy… all at the same time. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah"

"Your turn."

"Just happy to see you an' the baby are ok."

Maggie nodded gratefully.

"Harlan thinks it will be a boy, but we still have to wait to be sure" She looked back at the window. "He was buried the day after we arrived," she commented absently. "I haven't been able to visit him."

"You will, but for now you an' little Glenn need to rest." Maggie laughed with tears still in her eyes. "You're strong, more than anyone. We're here for you."

"I know. I know… I see you're recovering very fast"

"Yeah. Nurse said–"

"Alex"

"Yeah… he said I needed to get out of bed, regain some strength." He paused. "I saw Eugene, Aaron and Rosita yesterday, just before they left for Alexandria." There was some regret in his voice.

"They'll be back soon," Maggie said calmly, placing a hand on his.

The conversation was interrupted when they heard a light tapping on the door. After a brief pause, Harlan appeared in the room. He moved quickly, hurried.

"Hi!" He said excitedly. "Good to see my two favorite patients together."

He walked around the bed and placed the back of his hand on Maggie's forehead.

"How do you feel?"

"Weak, but I'm not in pain anymore."

"That's very good. I'll take a look at the stitches and do an ultrasound later, ok? If everything is fine,

we'll take you out this afternoon so you can walk around for a bit. The fresh air will do you good."

"Sounds perfect," Maggie said, pleased.

"What about you?" Harlan asked, addressing Daryl, "Alex told me the fever has gone. I'll take a look at your bandage later, but for now it seems everything is going perfectly."

Harlan examined Maggie under Daryl's watchful eye.

"Good," he said when finished, and put everything back into his briefcase. "I'll bring you the meds in a moment, I have to give Jesus a list of everything we need, and he's rushing me."

"Is he going out?" Daryl asked.

"Yes. We're short on almost everything. We try not to waste meds needlessly, but we would have problems if there were another emergency like this one. Also, I want to make sure we have everything you'll need for the next few months. There's another pregnant woman in the community, so there will be a lot of work to do. We'll fill Hilltop with babies."

With a smile he got up, said goodbye to them, and left the room.

"What are you thinking?"

Daryl looked up realizing he went completely silent.

"Nothing."

"Daryl, I know you. Please, just for once, listen to those around you and don't do anything stupid."

"What makes you think I'll do something stupid?"

"You've spent six days locked in a room. If Alexandria's walls were a problem for you, I can't imagine what's going through your head right now."

"It's nothing. Don't worry," he said, pressing his lips to her forehead.

* * *

The blows he struck against the wood surface created an alarmingly indiscreet echo, making him realize he had knocked with more force than necessary. His fist had fallen against the door as if it were also pissed off by the fact he had to walk to the other side of that damn house just to look for Jesus.

"Come in" a voice replied calmly.

Daryl entered the room and found Jesus, back to him, beside his bed. He was packing things into a black backpack. There was no leather coat or a hat, but he was already in his unmistakable work attire.

"Oh, it's you," he remarked, after turning to glance at his visitor. He eyed Daryl for a brief second and then returned his attention to the backpack. "How you doing?"

Daryl walked gingerly, studying the room. For some reason he was surprised that the place wasn't bigger. Jesus had said himself that he'd been there since the beginning, and given his status within the community, he had imagined that Hilltop's scout would have chosen a larger and more comfortable place to live. Not that the room wasn't big enough; from what he could see, there was ample space for the bed, a pair of nightstands and dressers, and even a worktable.

The archer approached the desk that was almost hidden under mountains of papers, most of them maps. He glanced and read some of the notes scribbled here and there. The tips of his fingers moved along the lines entwining like a spider web, until he stopped at a familiar word "ALEXANDRIA". A huge red circle surrounded his home.

"You're a peculiar specimen, Daryl Dixon," Jesus remarked. He was still organizing his backpack, but he had been watching the archer with curiosity.

Daryl cleared his throat, suddenly conscious that he had entered someone's room and began snooping around without even saying hello.

"You going out?" he asked, as if he didn't care in the least about his lack of manners.

"Yes," Jesus said without paying him much attention.

Daryl looked at the other man, who was now packing a pair of binoculars.

"Where you goin'?"

"To the city."

"With who?"

"Andy wanted to come, but I'd rather go alone this time."

"Yer goin' alone to the city? You fuckin' crazy?" Daryl asked, not even realizing he was raising his voice.

Jesus gave him a quizzical look.

"First you act like an ungrateful jerk, and now as if you were my mother… interesting."

Jesus walked past him and began rummaging inside a closet. Daryl snorted at the other man's indifference.

"Goin' alone, to the city, it's a stupid thing to do. Sure you know that."

"I appreciate the pointer," He replied, with his head still tucked into the closet. "I guess nobody better than you to give advice about doing stupid things, right?"

He closed the closet door and laid on the bed a small trunk.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," Daryl replied gravely.

"You're right. In fact, you're right about everything." He opened the trunk and pulled out a pair of knives, "It'd be much wiser to go with someone, but the truth is I've always preferred to go alone, I do better. And as I've told you before, people here, unfortunately, are not prepared for what's out there. Andy, for example, he's a good guy, but he gets nervous very easily, and if we were in a compromising situation, that would not only be a problem for him, but also for me. You never know what you'll find out beyond the walls, and taking care of oneself is tough enough without having to be concerned about another person's life. If it's already hard to lose someone in any kind situation, it's even worse when you know you could have done something about it, right?"

Daryl, who was listening attentively to his words, took a step back without even realizing it. Yes, he knew that feeling very well. He had faced it too many times, and each one of them had meant the loss of a part of himself.

"I'll go with you," he said suddenly.

Jesus turned around and looked at him with a frown.

"Is there something wrong with your ears?"

"Heard you perfectly," Daryl said. "I'm not like your people, I've been out there. I've seen and lived situations you wouldn't be able to imagine. So yes, I'll go with you."

Daryl's words angered Jesus deeply; the archer could tell by the way he had tightened his jaw. But when he spoke again his voice was still serene.

"You're not coming."

Daryl sighed with frustration.

"Ok" Jesus said standing in front of Daryl before he could protest again "try this with your arm."

Jesus raised his right arm in the air, fully aware that Daryl was not able to imitate that simple movement.

"Ass," the archer said irritably.

"You're probably right. But that should be more than enough answer for you."

"I'm not negotiatin'" Daryl replied.

"Because there's nothing to negotiate. Andy's limbs work perfectly and he's not coming, what makes you think I would agree for you to do so?"

"You can't stop me?"

"Well, I won't tie you to a chair, but I'm sorry to inform you that I'm the one driving the car."

Jesus left the backpack by the door, returned to collect the knives still lying on the bed, and placed them in the sheaths on his belt.

"Look, I'm glad to see you're better, Daryl," he said with parsimony, "and I would like to continue this conversation, but you've given me a headache and I'm in a hurry."

"Hey!" Daryl snapped walking behind him "I'm not asking you for permission."

"In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not forcing you stay to either" Jesus said, opening the door.

"I need to go."

"Why?!"

Jesus slammed the door shut and turned to face the archer. Daryl was not intimidated by his attitude but he could barely hide how surprised he was by the scout's unusual reaction.

"I need to get out of this place."

"This place has welcomed you, taken care of you when you could hardly string two words together. So mind your tongue when you talk about these people."

"It's not…" he let out some air, and lowered his voice, "I need to go out."

"No, what you need is to feel useful because otherwise you think you're worthless. It's time for you to realize there's nothing wrong with not being one hundred percent all the time, Daryl Dixon. You push yourself too hard, more than anyone really expects you to. And yes, people need you, you are a very important pillar in your community, but you have to look after yourself, too."

He meditated silently, reviewing each of the words that were unconsciously hitting his head like hammers.

Daryl and Jesus had maintained an entirely cordial relationship since they had met, but on the few occasions he had seen Hilltop's scout, they hadn't engaged in a conversation longer than four trite phrases. He didn't know him, and yet this apparently harmless man had managed to pierce the depths of his mind like a thunderbolt through the bark of a tree. And although Jesus had regained his characteristic composure, the words that left his mouth stung like arrows, painfully familiar.

He huffed, seeing that Jesus was about to leave the room.

"I want to do it for her, for Maggie," he said. "We've been together from the beginning and she has no one here, just me. I'll do whatever it takes so that baby is her only concern from now on."

Jesus listened attentively. Then he closed his eyes and let out a sigh that certainly sounded defeat.

"I'm leaving in fifteen minutes. If you're not at the car then, I'll go without you."


	5. Chapter 5

"Are you out of your mind?"

Alex didn't even wait to approach him, to toss the question into the air in an indiscreet tone. In fact, some of the people who were marauding around turned their heads toward the nurse's sudden outburst. Paul, however, exhaled deeply, closed the 4x4's trunk, and walked to the driver's door. Alex blocked his way, stepping in front of him.

"Seriously, if you're all trying to test me: I've already exhausted my patience quota for the day," the scout said.

"I'm not kidding, Paul."

"You think I am?"

"I don't think you're taking this very seriously," the nurse chided him.

"Alex, please…"

Paul tried to dodge around the other man but Alex stopped him, placing a hand on his chest.

"What were you thinking? Damn it, Paul. You don't let Andy go with you, but you take a man who can barely hold a spoon. What are you going to do if something goes wrong? What will happen if you run into problems? No, don't say anything" He said, quickly raising a hand before Paul could answer, "I'll tell you: you'll have to take care of yourself _and_ you'll have to take care of him, and you know that never ends well."

Paul looked at him closely. The nurse barely concealed the concern radiating from his eyes. But he also realized there was something else.

"I can understand Andy not taking this well" Paul said, "But such distrust from you, offends me."

Paul finally turned away from Alex, and opened the driver's door.

"It has nothing to do with that. I've never doubted your abilities, Paul. I know exactly what you're capable of and therefore don't understand why someone as meticulous as you, would make a decision like this. It's unwise, and it's not like you."

"Everything will be fine, don't worry" he said calmly.

Alex let out an exasperated moan behind him.

"You're impossible…"

Paul turned to face him.

"We've been through this before, why all the drama now?

Alex raised his palms in defeat.

"Never mind, you don't want to understand," he said shaking his head from side to side.

Paul grabbed his arm when he saw Alex was about to leave.

"I understand perfectly" he said quietly "Look, he may be a bit handicapped, but he has more experience than Andy or anyone from here could offer me. He's been out there; he has lived out there, and has lost people out there. If something goes wrong, he'll know what to do better than anyone."

The nurse lowered his head and laid eyes on the ground.

"But there's more, right?" Paul added studying Alex's expression.

"I don't trust him," he said, almost in a whisper.

"Hey…" Paul placed his gloved hands on both sides of the nurse's face, and then approached to give him a loving and reassuring kiss on his forehead. "We'll be back before you even know it."

Alex made the effort to smile. He didn't look very convinced by his words, but the nurse knew him well, it was useless to prolong the conversation, he had already made a decision. Alex took Paul's hand and squeezed it as a way to say goodbye, and walked away.

Paul's eyes followed him as he walked away until he realized Daryl was waiting, smoking a cigarette, sitting on Barrington House's main stairs. He saw him take a quick look at Alex, then got up and approached where he was waiting with the car.

"Thought I'd never hear the end of that lover's quarrel," he said and opened the passenger door to sit down.

Paul took a last glance at Alex, whose figure disappeared behind the hospital trailer door, and sat in the driver's seat.

"Let's make things clear here," Paul said.

Daryl didn't bother to look at him. He was lying on his seat and fixed his eyes forward as if the conversation didn't interest him in the least.

"Dixon…" Paul's voice kept its usual calm, but the tone was much more serious than usual.

The archer turned to face him. Paul's eyes, usually crystalline, were looking at him like two ice floes.

"Your job will be to watch the car," he said firmly.

Daryl grunted something that sounded like a curse, intending to protest, but Paul ignored him, leaning between the seats and searching for something in the back of the car. When he settled back into the driver's seat, he dropped a couple of maps on the archer's thighs.

"You'll give me directions. We're going here," he said pointing a point on the map.

"Thought we were goin' to the city."

" _I_ was; the plan has changed. First we go here, it's a small and remote town, and if we're lucky enough maybe we can skip the city. Now listen to me carefully," he continued, "wherever we go, you won't get out of the car, is that clear? You'll stay here and await my return" he leaned again to look for something in the backpack and then placed a walkie-talkie over the maps. "We will communicate with each other by radio when we're separated, but only if necessary. Oh! And also, no smoking in the car. Those are the rules, Daryl, and you'll follow them, or I'll kick your ass out without a second thought."

Daryl watched him for a few seconds and then returned his gaze to the front.

"Let's go," He said hoarsely.

* * *

The car tore down the road like a missile, leaving a dense trail of leaves and dust. They'd been driving for an hour and in the entire duration they hadn't exchanged one miserable word. The silence was heavy and intense, nothing compared to the one he shared with Andy a few days ago.

Paul would've made the effort to strike up a conversation, it was something innate in him; he was good, but he was not in the mood to do so. He was an indulgent and reasonable person, and although he understood the situation his stubborn fellow traveler was going through, the way he spoke to his people, like a rabid dog, had annoyed him deeply.

A slight noise on his right side caught his attention.

"Feet off the dashboard, please," he said calmly, not taking his eyes off the road.

"This bother you?"

"Yes. I don't think you're doing your shoulder any favors in that position. Also, you're getting dirt everywhere."

"You all neat freaks or somethin'?" Daryl grunted as he rested his feet on the mat grunted as he rested his feet back on the floor mat.

Paul looked at him, and then laid his eyes on the dashboard.

"There's still mud."

Daryl muttered to himself and with his left hand, he wiped the dirt from the surface.

"Happy now?"

"Very," Paul replied, looking away trying to hide the smirk forming in the corner of his mouth.

They drove for another six miles, each focused on their task, until Daryl's voice broke the silence.

"Slow down," he said. "In a couple miles there's a right hand turn up a track, looks like a shortcut and we'll be less exposed."

Paul reduced speed and as the archer had pointed out, a detour appeared on the right of the road. It was a dirt road full of stones, almost hidden by the dense underbrush growing out of control at both sides.

"This is a dirt track," Paul sighed after a while, "are you sure this is the right way?"

"Want to look yourself?" Daryl asked, shaking the maps in front of his nose.

Paul slapped them away.

"Aren't you a bit old to behave as if you were seven?" he snorted, "what am I saying… I've met children more mature than most adults. We've got a few at Hilltop who could teach you a thing or two, Daryl Dixon"

"I'd rather be an honest child than hide behind an icy mask all the time."

"Don't go there, Daryl. You don't know me."

Paul saw out of the corner of his eye the archer turned in his seat to face him.

"For real," Daryl said, emboldened and addressing him with an overly sarcastic tone, "What's with the fake Zen shit, huh? You actually serious about people calling you _Jesus_? You go around like you're some _Saint_. How do you do it? You saying you never get pissed off by–"

Paul, who hadn't taken his eyes off the road once, slammed on the brakes and stopped the car, abruptly engulfed by a huge cloud of dust.

"Fuck…" The archer muttered.

"Are you ok?"

Daryl had grabbed the seat to avoid falling forward, and now he couldn't hide the pained expression contorting his face, grasping his injured shoulder with his left hand.

Paul returned his gaze to the front. The dust dissipated slowly, and under its cream-colored veil, a silhouette took form. The erratic figure of a walker came into view, the woman who had surprised him after a sharp turn. At first he only saw her, but after a moment two more appeared by its side.

"Go around," Daryl said.

"No, the fewer the better." Before Daryl could make any other comment, Paul got out.

The chilling cries of the walkers grew more piercing as they noticed his presence. Paul examined them carefully. At some point, when the world was still normal, the woman who'd blocked their path had probably been a beautiful young girl. Now, her blonde shoulder-length hair was tangled in a web of filthy knots.

The other two, father and daughter he imagined, weren't so deteriorated and rotten, they had probably died recently. Then his eyes fell on the little girl, and he felt an unexpected turn in his stomach, which had nothing to do with the stench that emanated from their bodies. Her height, the long brown hair and the eyes that would've been a beautiful shade of green not long ago… It was like seeing a veiled portrait of Abbie. The battered vision of a memory that still hurt like the first day. But it couldn't be her, he recalled quickly. It was not her.

He took a deep breath and grabbed one of his well-honed knives, and with fast and precise movements he finished the three of them with no hesitation. The bodies fell motionless against the dusty road. He didn't want to waste any more time, so he dragged them out of the way and hid them in the undergrowth across the berm.

When he returned to the car, something had changed. He could feel Daryl's eyes snag on him like hooks. However the archer didn't say anything, he shifted in his seat and looked forward, settling into a more comfortable position. Paul started the engine, grateful for the archer's discretion, and they continued the journey in complete silence.

* * *

They drove slowly down the main street, looking at everything around them. The town was bigger than Paul had imagined. The street that stretched before them had large blocks of flats, some of them were three stories high, and were arranged one behind the other like pieces of a puzzle.

They watched with great interest the shops occupying the floors at street level, as many of them didn't seem to have suffered much damage. Some of the stores windows hadn't been broken, which was a nice turn after so much misfortune. Paul felt some relief. Maybe for once, since the world had collapsed, fate dealt them a winning hand.

After a few meters Paul stopped the car in front of what once was probably a busy grocery store.

"C'mon, even the rats've left that place," Daryl said.

"Let's check it out," Paul said, ignoring the archer's corrosive tone.

Daryl followed the scout out of the car.

"Where do you think you going?" Paul asked immediately.

"Relax, kid, just going to wait here," he said as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and put one in his mouth.

"If something happens, use the radio."

Paul didn't wait for Daryl's response as he left to enter the building.

A strange feeling of coldness welcomed him the moment he crossed the entrance. It was strange, because the mid-August heat was stifling, but familiar at the same time, because he felt the same way every time he set foot in an abandoned place. It was as if the memories which still permeated the walls came out to greet him with a tingle, reminding him there was once a different time.

He walked carefully, accompanied by the crackle of crystals under his boots. He examined the store. It was quite large and the solitary shelves were arranged parallel to each other in front of him. He didn't notice anything unusual, not even the familiar smell of death. But he didn't want to take any risks. He took one of his knives and banged it repeatedly against one of the metal surfaces. The sound echoed throughout the floor, as he waited. After a few minutes of hearing nothing but his own breath, he went on.

When he left the supermarket about twenty minutes later, he found Daryl sitting on the hood of the car puffing away on another cigarette.

"Have you found anything?" the archer asked hoarsely.

"Only dust and spiders, but I found a first aid kit in the offices, and some anti-inflammatories, painkillers and…" he said reading the last of the bottles, "a decongestant, just in case you get a runny nose one day. Oh! And I also found this,"

He reached into one of his cargo pockets, pulled out a small box and threw it towards the archer. Daryl caught it after a first failed attempt and studied it while Paul turned around and entered the car. The archer huffed, laughing when he realized it was a pack of nicotine patches.

They continued the work for a few more blocks under a prevailing calm. They didn't spot walkers either inside or outside of any of the stores Paul had slipped into. It really was a ghost town. Still, they silently thanked the tranquility it offered, if only for a short time.

They weren't as lucky in the search for drugs. Paul had only managed to find more bottles of painkillers and antacids.

Discouraged, the scout dropped into the driver's seat. They still had plenty of places to look at, but he was beginning to think they weren't going to find anything useful in a real medical emergency, and that meant an inevitable trip to the city, which he wanted to avoid at all costs.

Paul observed the street in front of him; the sun began to descend behind them, lengthening the car's shadow on the road. It wouldn't be long before it started to get dark, and they needed to consider seeking a place to spend the night.

The car swayed slightly with Daryl's weight as he sat down in the passenger's seat. The archer had been smoking, walking up and down the street, while waiting for Paul.

"We haven't seen a single walker, isn't it strange?" Daryl asked.

It was strange, yes, but Paul shrugged, distracted, and started the car.

They left the main road and drove through some streets until they found a small residential neighborhood. The houses were typical of the area, with its porches and natural building materials.

Paul stopped the vehicle at the entrance of the first house that looked completely abandoned. They both got out of the car and while Daryl waited on the porch, lighting a new cigarette, Paul looked around the perimeter to make sure anyone else was out there.

"Another cigarette?" He said as he returned.

"Nothin' better to do," the archer muttered.

"All clean around the house, have you checked the windows?"

"Yeah, looks empty."

"I'll go first anyway, best to ensure nothing joins our pajama party."

Paul took out of one of his pockets what looked like a small hook, and forced the door open with no effort.

"I'd just kick it in…" Daryl said.

"I see going unnoticed is not one of your strengths, huh?"

Paul got into the house and crossed the narrow corridor that led to the kitchen. Everything was quiet, the musty smell was the only thing prominent, but far from being unpleasant; it was a good sign.

He took his time checking every corner and room of the house. It was a narrow three-storey house, and in addition to the porch, it had a tiny terrace in the attic. On the ground floor there was a kitchen, a living room and a bathroom. Upstairs were three bedrooms and another bathroom. Leaving aside the questionable and out of fashion decoration, the house didn't present any danger for them, and was perfect for the night.

When he came out he found Daryl sitting on the porch's steps puffing on what looked like a new cigar. Paul snatched it from his lips, and threw on the stone path.

"You fuckin' mind?" Daryl grunted.

"I don't care if you want to burn your lungs, but you smell like the exhaust pipe of a damn truck."

Once inside the house, Paul cleared dishes and objects off the kitchen's table and sat down to make a provisional inventory, taking advantage of the remaining light, and before the night finally fell.

After a while, he rubbed his face tirelessly. As soon as he had finished writing down the last bottle, he felt the weariness fall over his shoulders like a torrent of cold water. He looked at the collected material, and sighed. It was better than nothing, he forced himself to say, but was insufficient.

"Tomorrow is a long day. We'll find something."

He heard Daryl's voice behind him. Paul couldn't help but laugh to himself; the archer trying to encourage him, now that was ironic. Either way, he didn't turn to look at him, but he figured that Daryl was leaning on the doorway. He then pulled out of the backpack a cloth bag and placed all the meds inside it.

"Yeah, sure," he said standing up. "Anyway, let's eat something. Brianna packed some cold meat and cookies, and some of that bread she makes."

Rummaging through drawers and cupboards, Paul had found some candles and a shiny bottle of red wine. So they sat down for a quiet dinner as the night grew darker and the bright moon rose over the black sky.

"Do you remember her? Brianna, I mean," Paul asked suddenly savoring a piece of spongy bread. "She was with the group you saved down the road."

Daryl nodded in acknowledgment as he filled his cheeks like a hungry dog.

"They were lucky we were there," he said with his mouth full.

Paul raised an eyebrow.

"Excuse me? I'd have taken them out myself, if it hadn't been for the handcuffs and the gun pointed at my head."

"You stole our truck, attacked us, escaped twice and snuck into Rick's house after snooping around Alexandria, the hell were you expecting?"

Paul laughed at the memory.

"Yeah… it wasn't your truck, anyway."

"Sure. You were lucky, at any other time Rick would have put a bullet in your head without asking,"

"I knew you wouldn't do it."

"Why so sure?" he asked, lifting another piece of cheese and bread to his mouth.

"Hey! Ration, man. We don't know how long we'll be out," Paul protested. "I'm sure, because I followed you and because of the conversation you had in the car."

Suddenly, Daryl looked up, chewing noisily, and eyes nailing on Paul.

"Were you awake?"

"I wondered how you'd planned to put me up a tree."

Paul laughed, but he saw how the archer leaned away, resting firmly against the back of the chair as he looked at him stonily.

"Piece of shit," he blurted, "you were falling on me on purpose?"

The archer's exacerbated voice surprised Paul, he didn't understand why something so insignificant and banal could suddenly irritate the other man in that way.

"Relax, _macho man_ " Paul replied calmly "It wasn't me who was driving the car."

"You lied to us to sneak into our home, with our people, do you have any idea of what strangers have put us through?"

"Daryl–"

"Be glad I didn't realize at the time, because I would've thrown ya from the movin' car."

Daryl rose up from his chair and left the kitchen toward the stairs, leaving Paul with the word, and the food, in the mouth.

"Okay…"

Paul looked at the kitchen's door for a few seconds, then he poured another glass of wine, and drank the entire contents in one gulp.

* * *

Paul found Daryl in one of the two rooms located above the porch. The archer was sitting in an armchair by the window, with his legs crossed and resting on the frame, and his gaze set out there.

"I found this," Paul said dropping on the bed a heavy comforter "It was in a closet, so it's clean."

"What's for?"

"Sleep?"

"I'm not going to sleep."

"Don't be stupid, you need to rest."

"For spending all day sitting in a car? You sleep, I'll keep watch."

His voice was still expressing resentment, but Paul was too exhausted to have another trivial confrontation with someone so extremely stubborn as Daryl Dixon. The archer was not his concern, Maggie was, and his people. So he turned and walked toward the room down the hall, hoping that the night passed as quickly as possible.

He was not sure how much time had passed, maybe two or three hours, when he saw Daryl walking past the doorway of his room. He noted that the archer was examining the room looking for him, trying to see beyond the darkness, but Paul was sat on the floor next to the window, where the moonlight was drawing an impenetrable line. It was obvious that Daryl hadn't seen him because the archer approached the bed where Paul had left the backpack, and began rummaging inside.

"Are you looking for something?"

Daryl jumped, letting out an expletive.

"The hell are you doing there?"

"We have to keep watch on all fronts."

The archer lost interest quickly and picked up the backpack.

"I saw you pack some binoculars."

"Yeah…"

"Get them, I saw something."

Paul stood up immediately, grabbed the binoculars and followed Daryl to his room.

"It's night, what do you think we're going to see with these?" he asked, approaching the window.

"There," the archer said. "Lights."

Paul saw them as soon as he laid his eyes on the irregular line marking the horizon. He picked up the binoculars and scanned the darkness until he found the bright spots.

"Look like two cars."

Paul passed the binoculars to Daryl and he peered into the night, holding them with one hand.

"Saviors?" The archer asked.

"It's possible, how long have they been there?"

"Appeared about twenty minutes ago, haven't moved since."

Paul looked carefully at the static reflections that stood out among the thick night.

"Where's your radio?" he asked then.

"Left it in the car."

Paul mumbled something and then left the room, returning soon after with his walkie-talkie, scanning between the different frequencies, until he found something. Both of them heard the interference clearly. Daryl posed the binoculars on the windowsill and Paul dropped himself on the armchair previously occupied by the archer.

The two men were glued to the radio as if it was their only lifeline. They listened attentively to the sounds coming out of the radio and discerned the swing of a conversation. The transmissions were short and precise, but they weren't able to decipher anything they were saying. The words were lost behind loud static.

"We're too far away, not enough coverage," Paul said with exasperation.

Both looked at the walkie-talkie until the sound disappeared. Whoever they were, they'd cut off communication, so Paul turned off the radio to preserve its battery.

"We should follow them," Daryl said then.

"Yeah, sure… brilliant idea. Let's go out there and announce with fanfare that we're here, alone, with no weapons. The Saint and his one-handed friend."

Paul sighed and stood up, walking towards the door.

"Are we going to let them go?" the archer pressed behind him.

"We don't know how many they are, and anyway they're not our problem right now."

"Bullshit! They caused all this!"

Paul looked at him with stoic and bored eyes.

"I'm just a few meters from you, Daryl Dixon, so I'd appreciate deeply if you didn't yell at me. First: because I'm hearing you crystal clear. Secondly: because I don't need you to demonstrate your frustration with every passing minute; I understand it perfectly. And thirdly: I'm terribly tired… Remember why we're here, the reason I've let you come. You're doing it for Maggie, don't forget that for one second. She's all that should occupy your mind, ok? We need to focus on that and get back as soon as possible, and in one piece, if is not too much to ask. Because when you act impulsively, as you're doing right now, the best possible outcome for you is a bullet in the shoulder." Paul paused and turned. "Keep the binoculars if you want. See you first thing in the morning."


	6. Chapter 6

Daryl thought he'd blinked just once, a simple and involuntary act, but when he opened his eyes again he was surprised to see it was already early in the morning. He shot straight up, as if he had awakened from a bad dream, and noticed something sliding on his chest. He looked down and saw a colorful crocheted blanket covering him. Disoriented, he looked out the window; he had no idea when he'd fallen asleep, he hadn't even been aware that he was feeling sleepy. The last thing he remembered was carefully watching the motionless lights on the horizon. Then, he looked at the windowsill and noticed the binoculars had disappeared.

He slapped off the blanket and turned to look at the door, but something on the bed caught his attention. He got up, grunting, feeling an uncomfortable pain on his injured shoulder, and walked over to see what it was. On the comforter was a small wrapped package, a pill, a bottle of water and a note.

 _Your breakfast._

 _If you miss me, I'm in the attic._

 _P. :)_

Daryl crumpled the note. How was it possible that the chatterbox had entered the room, tucked him under the covers like a baby, taken the binoculars and left all of this on the bed, without waking him?

"Damn…" he mumbled to himself.

After eating a couple of cookies and taking the pill in the hope of easing the pain in his shoulder, he went upstairs.

The attic was a small space with low gabled roofs, and full of stacked boxes. A light warm breeze greeted him as he set foot on the dusty wooden floor. He saw the balcony's door was open, so he dodged beams and spider webs, and followed the trail of footprints there.

He found Jesus sitting on a folding camping chair with his legs resting on the railing. It looked like he was reading something. On the floor beside him, were the binoculars and the radio.

"Good morning," he said affably, though he didn't turn to look at him.

"How long have you been here?"

"A couple of hours. I've been snooping around the house. Look what I found." He took something he was keeping in the other side, and passed it to Daryl.

The archer examined the object wrinkling his forehead. It was a yellow plastic briefcase, and had some letters glued on one side, but time had worn them and it was impossible to read what it said.

"The hell is this?"

"Open it."

Daryl opened the small briefcase with one hand, and found a complete medical toy set.

"Isn't it cool? Straight out of the eighties. I had one like this as a child, I lost almost everything after a week, though" he smiled "Who knows, maybe it's a good sign? And I'm sure the kids will love it. We all wanted to be doctors at some point, right?"

"I suppose…"

Daryl studied the briefcase, with its brightly colored utensils, without knowing quite what to do with it.

He'd never had a toy like this. In fact, he had never had toys like the other children did. He frowned and laid his eyes on Jesus who was focused on whatever he was reading, and it came to his mind the last conversation they had. The words that chatterbox had uttered to him, and how he'd insinuated that the wound in his shoulder was his own fault. He also recalled how he had confessed that he had manipulated them into bringing him to Alexandria. And now the fucker was sitting there, as if nothing had happened. He was so pissed off he thought about kicking him down the terrace.

Instead, he stared back at the harmless toy in his hands. He imagined a small version of the man in front him, with his blond hair and big blue smiling eyes, a beautiful kid playing under his mother's watchful eye. Suddenly, a man approaches them, he gives the woman a kiss, and then bends down to pick up and lift the child in the air. The little boy responds with laughter. The man is his father, showing how much he had missed him after a long working day. The perfect happy family he never had.

"I've also found this."

The archer looked up, absorbed, and saw that Jesus was now standing up, showing him some yellow pages. He guessed that was what he was reading.

"There's a Gynecology Clinic in that direction," he said, pointing south "There's also a Walmart on the outskirts, I don't think we should waste our time there, though, but…" he continued, and then showed him a map of the town, making him wonder where the hell he'd found it, "I've seen that there are a couple of smaller pharmacies, one here and the other one here. Hopefully we'll find something there."

Jesus gave him a genuine smile. He was obviously pleased with the research he had done without even leaving the house, while Daryl slept like a moron.

He had to fight the urge to punch that angel face and the apparent innocence that got on his nerves. And that fucking serenity, and the way he could get into and out of conflicts as if nothing really affected him. But there was something underneath that facade, Daryl was sure of it. He saw it on the road, he saw him hesitate and doubt himself. It was only for a split second, but he noticed that for a moment, the chatterbox was drowned in words and the veil of strength vanished.

Daryl blinked, trying to set those thoughts aside, and he realized that Jesus was looking at him intently.

"How's your shoulder?"

"Fine."

"We should check the bandage."

The archer ignored him; he laid the toy on the floor and picked up the binoculars.

"They turned off the lights about four in the morning," Jesus said behind him "they were still there in the morning, but disappeared half an hour ago."

"Do you think they'll come here?" Daryl asked while scanning the horizon.

"I don't know, would be a bit of a coincidence for them to just come right when we're here, but maybe they saw us when we crossed the track. Who knows? It's better not to risk. We'll hide the car and go on foot. If you think you can't do it; I'll go alone."

"You kidding?" Daryl said, turning around quickly.

"Absolutely not."

"I'm fine."

"Well, let's go then."

Before leaving the house, Jesus had lectured him about the new rules to follow in light of the fact that they had to leave behind the wheeled cage, and the chatterbox insisted that he would tie him up and lock him in a closet if he didn't obey his orders.

"Do you have something to defend yourself if necessary?" he had asked.

"Shouldn't the control freak have checked that before we left Hilltop?"

"The control freak assumes you're aware of the dangers outside; he's asking just in case."

Daryl answered affirmatively, so he would shut up, but the truth was he only had a small knife he had stolen from the Barrington House kitchen.

Since he had awakened at Hilltop, he had tried more than once to take a look at the arsenal provided by their blacksmith; he was sure there had to be more than spears, but the shoulder pain, the fatigue and the doctor recommendations, had him bedridden. And even after he felt better, he had only been able to leave the house in two occasions, and in both, he had met with a tall and robust woman, with fiery red hair and freckled face, who didn't take her eyes off him.

It wasn't a great knife, but he imagined that it would be more than enough for a seemingly empty town. It wasn't like killing walkers was new to him, and he still had a perfectly fine arm.

After they organized everything, it took them about fifteen minutes to reach their destination. They walked slowly and quietly under the punishing sun, while examining each intersection or street corner.

Daryl studied the street while waiting for Jesus to open the door of the building where they expected to find the gynecology clinic. They had agreed to explore the area first and return later with the car to collet everything in case they actually found something useful.

Both groaned with relief when they crossed the entrance hall, finally sheltered from the burning sun.

"I can't wait for the fall," Jesus whimpered.

"You deserve it for bringing that stupid coat."

"Stupid? Have you ever tried to bite through leather? Go around with your flesh exposed all you want, at least I'm protected if something goes wrong."

Daryl leaned against the wall breathing with some difficulty. The building had offered them a shade shelter, but the accumulated heat staled the air making it stifling.

"What floor it is?" the archer asked.

"The third. Wait here while I take a look."

For once Daryl didn't protest and was grateful to sit and wait on the steps. Jesus soon appeared again, informing him that the building was completely empty.

"Don't like this," the archer said as they reached the third floor, "everything's too quiet, where is everybody?"

"Maybe they were lucky and managed to escape."

Not even Jesus seemed satisfied with his own answer, but he got inside the office, followed by Daryl, saying nothing else.

The place was distributed like a normal flat, but the rooms were adapted to the needs of a private clinic. The hall was a small reception, with a desk and a couch for the patients. There was another room that looked like the doctor's office and another one that served as a waiting room. In the hallway they found a bathroom, and at the end was the procedure room. There were no windows there, so they were content with the small flashlight Jesus had brought.

"We could take the ultrasound scanner," Jesus said.

"That thing? Thought he already had one."

"Yes, but you never know."

Daryl looked at Jesus as he opened cabinets and drawers, and took everything he encountered, from latex gloves, to all kinds of medical supplies.

After a couple of hours, the two men had looted the place almost completely, and had piled all the material in the reception area.

"We'll come later with the car," said Jesus.

"Was everything on the list?"

"No, not really. But they're useful things and that's what matters. Let's see if we have the same luck in those pharmacies."

They left the building and kept to the shade as if it were an oasis in the middle of the desert. The first pharmacy was located about ten minutes from the clinic, but it took them longer than usual to get there. Daryl felt discomfort in his shoulder, and the lack of sleep and sweltering heat were taking their toll. With each step he felt his body grow heavier and heavier. On the contrary, Jesus walked ahead as if he wasn't burning under that long and ridiculous –whatever he said– leather trench coat. The scout scanned the streets and alleys looking for any threat, and occasionally glanced behind him to see if Daryl was still there. Meanwhile, the archer was trying to look like he wasn't about to faint.

"Shit…"

Daryl was wiping sweat from his forehead when he heard the scout's curse. The archer looked up and saw the pharmacy's big sign, but he also saw the window was completely broken.

Jesus shook his head, but still came inside. Daryl followed him wishing the darkness of the place would offer him some fresh air, but he was wrong, and what he saw there wasn't much more encouraging. The place was a disaster; boxes and cans strewn everywhere, half-empty and broken shelves, desks overturned, and the cash registers were uprooted.

"Fuck. The other one will be like this," Daryl said reluctantly.

"It's too messy to be something recent," Jesus said "It seems that this was a busy street, maybe it was ransacked during the evacuations. I don't blame them; to be honest, we all went a little crazy at the time."

"Not me," Daryl countered, passing him.

"Yeah… well, the important thing is that it doesn't look like it's been touched since then. Maybe it's still our lucky day."

Daryl drew a sarcastic smile.

"You know what happened the last time someone said something like that? A truck full of food ended up at the bottom of a lake."

"Really? I wonder what happened…"

Jesus reached his gloved hand into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a piece of paper.

"Here," he said, giving it to Daryl, "the meds we're looking for, they're listed in order of priority. You look over there and I'll do this side."

The two men began to search carefully amid the chaos of boxes.

"A lot of these bottles are about to expire," Daryl said after a while.

"Don't worry about it, I once read an article that said that the Department of Defense had asked the FDA to test some drugs to study their effectiveness, and about the ninety percent remained effective after the expiration date. There was some antibiotic, don't remember its name, that was still useful after ten years. They also spoke of others that could last between twenty-five to thirty years. I think we're fine for now."

Daryl looked closely at the other man kneeling on the floor with his back facing him.

"Smartass…" He said.

"I just like reading" Jesus replied, shrugging.

"About drugs?"

"Anything is good, if it takes your mind off of stupid things. You should try it."

Jesus got up, leaving a small pile of boxes and cans aside, and walked behind the counters.

Daryl wanted to respond. He was more than aware that Jesus let out those seemingly harmless darts, with the clear purpose of provoking a reaction from him. At any other time Daryl imagined himself getting up, grabbing the other man by the throat and spitting in his face that he should control that serpent's tongue of his. He didn't do it, though; he didn't want to give him the satisfaction of taking the bait. Then there was his shoulder injury and the fatigue getting to him. But there was also something else, even if he wasn't sure what it was. He knew deep down, that the other man wasn't being malicious. Jesus's jovial and carefree attitude could really irritate Daryl, but he knew that the chatterbox could be many things, but not a bad person.

A sudden noise made both men spring to their feet. They looked at each other for a moment as to ensure they both had heard it. It came from the back of the pharmacy. There was a sliding door between both spaces and neither of them had thought about checking what was on the other side.

Not thinking twice, Daryl took a step forward to follow the sound. They'd been overconfident due to the apparent lack of danger, and they'd made a stupid beginner's mistake, but Jesus stopped him, raising his hand in the air.

"Stay where you are. Whatever it is can't attack us being behind the door."

"Yes, but behind that door could be more drugs."

"You're right. But you stay there, I'll take a look."

The scout placed himself near the opposite frame to where the door opened; he pulled out one of his knives and then slid the door slowly trying not to make much noise. With the door ajar, he glanced across. Daryl imagined that Jesus hadn't seen anything worrisome because immediately afterwards he moved the door further and disappeared inside, leaving him alone.

The archer's heart started pounding hard, and almost unconsciously, he reached his belt looking for the gun he knew wasn't there. Daryl swore softly.

Then he heard the sound of objects tumbling to the ground, and among the noise, he thought he heard Jesus's voice. His body stiffened, then he gripped the only weapon he had at hand and with decision, he walked toward the door.

What he found was a narrow hallway that was only illuminated by the light that seeped through a small window at the top of the back wall. Throughout, he saw only two doors; one to his right that was closed and had some letters pasted on that read "WC", and another one at the end, on the left side.

He walked slowly, putting all his senses on alert, but he only found a singular silence. No moans or squawks were heard, or anything similar to the soundtrack of the time in which they lived. In fact, all he could hear was Jesus's voice repeating softly, "come on, come on."

Daryl poked his head and found the scout kneeling on the floor, and gesturing toward one of the room's corners, but from where he was standing he couldn't see whatever it was that had drawn Jesus's attention.

He looked around, it was not a very large room; shelves lined the walls, filled with boxes, folders and documents. There were boxes stacked on the floor, some seemed to be the cause of the noise he had heard.

The archer laid eyes again on Jesus.

"Come on, I'm not going to hurt you," he said as he tapped on the tiled floor.

"The fuck are you doing?"

Jesus looked at him up and down as if he hadn't noticed his presence until that moment.

"What are _you_ doing?" he asked in response.

"What do you think?"

Daryl stepped forward.

"Don't move," Jesus said quickly, "you'll scare it. It's a cat; it looks like he slid through the hallway's window. He was on one of the shelves when I came in; he scared the hell out of me. The poor thing is nothing but skin and bones. Come on… get out of there, I'll give you a cookie."

Jesus looked in his coat's pockets and pulled out a plastic package, opened it and cut a piece of cookie.

"Come on, little one… eat something."

Daryl watched with astonishment the other man's failed attempts to win the animal over. Then he snorted.

"Get out of there, let me try."

The archer pushed Jesus aside, but the cat took that moment to run between the two men, climb to the window and escape.

"I told you," Jesus protested.

"Was you cornering him, he felt threatened." The two men stood up.

"At least he could have eaten the cookie, he was famished. I'm surprised he was able to jump to the window."

"Leave it there, he'll come back."

"How do you know?"

"Animals are better survivors than we are, believe me. Haven't you read about it?" he said sarcastically.

"Maybe I will."

"You should."

Jesus handed the package of cookies to Daryl, and while the archer prepared some food, hoping the cat would return to eat it, Jesus searched through the boxes of what they thought was the storeroom.

"Ha! We've won the lottery," Jesus said suddenly.

"What did you find?"

Daryl got up and Jesus pulled out of one the cardboard boxes, a white and blue package.

" _Viagra_ " he said in an absurdly serious voice, while presenting the box like he was in some home shopping network advertisement.

"You're a prick," Daryl grumbled.

The archer left the storeroom with Jesus's laughter in the background, and returned to the pharmacy. The scout appeared shortly after, carrying a box which he lifted over one of the still standing counters.

"You kidding me, right?" the archer said, very aware of its contents.

"I'm not. Look, maybe this is the apocalypse, but, my dear friend, sex is a healthy sport, and having a bit of fun never hurts. In fact, I am absolutely convinced that all these alpha male conflicts are just the result of a worrying lack of carnal love. In my opinion people should let their hair down more often, relax a little bit and…"

Jesus left the sentence in the air and moved his mouth as if he was about to add something else, but then pursed his lips, took the box and placed it next to the pile of meds he had selected earlier.

Daryl filled his lungs with air, trying to stifle the annoyance growing inside him. It was obvious that Jesus was about to take another dig at him. But the fucker decided to hold his tongue, and that irritated the archer even further. He was sick of the way that _hippie_ talked about him, as if he knew him. He didn't; in fact, he didn't know him at all. He was ready to let loose and seal that big mouth shut, if he continued saying stuff like that.

Daryl closed his eyes, and forced himself to remember why he joined that damned chatterbox in this trip: it was Maggie. He was doing it for her and the baby, and also for Glenn. Suddenly, thinking about his friend saddened him, but in a strange way it also helped him to park those thoughts and relax a bit.

The two men left the store shortly afterwards and went to the next target. The other pharmacy was south. They decided to leave it for last because it was closer to the house where they had spent the night. They thought that maybe, and depending on what they found there, they would have time to go back, relax for a bit while eating something, then take the car, pack all the material, and head to Hilltop with enough time to spend the night behind its walls.

They arrived at the pharmacy about twenty minutes later. The heat was pressing hard and Daryl was feeling completely exhausted. But Jesus was right, the second pharmacy, which was located in a narrow street surrounded by houses, was intact, and that simple fact was enough to cheer him up.

After taking a look through the windows, and making sure that there was nothing on the other side to answer the door, Jesus forced the lock and they both went inside.

The two men looked around fascinated; as if they just found a treasure they spent years looking for. The place was untouched, the shelves were full of cans and boxes neatly arranged and aligned. Displays samples were set up on the counters waiting for the customers who would never come. It was as if time had stopped completely.

It took them almost three hours to empty the place. They spared no expense; they had found some empty boxes in the storeroom and they filled them with as much as they could.

"Not enough space in the car for all of this," Daryl said when they were finished.

"We'll look for a bigger one, if we're not lucky, we'll take the essentials and return another day for the rest."

"Or we could take two cars."

"You can't drive."

"I'd try."

"You're not going to drive, Daryl. I'm sure tomorrow your shoulder will remember this long day, the heat and the unnecessary strain," he said as he piled up the last boxes near the entrance. "Alex spent too many sleepless nights watching that wound, checking for infection, making sure the stitches didn't split open, and keeping your fever down… I don't wanna be responsible for making all that work for nothing."

Daryl opened his mouth to remind him, for the second time, that he didn't need nannies looking after him, that he knew very well how to take care of himself, and this was not the first scar marking his body. But he understood, though he didn't show it, that Hilltop's people had showed real compassion for him and his people, and he didn't want to feed that ungrateful image they probably already had of him.

It was about four in the afternoon when they finally returned to the house. Jesus threw the leather coat on a table and dropped himself on the living room's couch with a loud moan. Daryl sat on an armchair but, far from relieved, he felt a painful cramp in his shoulder as he leaned against the backrest.

"Does it hurt?" Jesus asked.

"I'm fine."

Jesus rolled his eyes, tiring of the archer's sharp attitude.

"In the backpack there's a small first-aid kit. We should change the bandage, you're all sweaty and it won't help the wound."

"Give me the bandages, I'll change it."

"Why?"

"Why, what?"

"Why don't you let me help you?"

Daryl looked at him; he was still half reclining on the couch in a relaxed posture. But this calm was not reflected in his water blue eyes, which had turned dark as he asked the question. It was as if he was speaking about something else, but Daryl couldn't say for certain, so he shook his head and replied:

"Because I can do it myself."

To his surprise Jesus not only didn't press him, but he rose from the couch and left the room. When he returned, he put a small kit on the coffee table and left him alone.

Daryl looked over his shoulder. From his seat, he could see the kitchen's door and he listened Jesus stirring inside, probably taking some food out of the backpack. It didn't sound like he had any intention to come back to the living room, but still, the archer picked up the kit, went upstairs and into the bathroom.

After spending a long time trying to change the bandages, and barely getting them tangled around his shoulder, Daryl heard a knock on the door.

"How you doing?" Jesus asked in the other side.

Daryl swore to himself.

"I'm almost done."

"You're _almost_ done? For goodness sake, Daryl, you've been in there for more than half an hour. Why don't you let me help you? I'm hungry and I think it would be rude of me to eat alone, and I'm sure you want to eat something too."

The archer didn't answer and kept trying to bandage his shoulder the best he could. On the other side of the door he could hear Jesus move; he imagined him placing his hands on his hips, impatiently.

"Okay… I'm coming in."

Daryl sat near the toilet, but Jesus didn't come in immediately. He assumed the scout was waiting on the other side for a negative response, but the archer just waited for him, sitting on the edge of the tub.

As the door began to open the archer regretted letting Jesus join him in the bathroom. Daryl was a strong and determined person, who had shown fearlessness on many occasions. But for some reason, in that moment, and in the other the man's presence, he felt small and vulnerable. He realized that he was about to expose something much more personal and delicate than some dirty, sweaty flesh. The archer was well aware of his imperfections but he had learned to live with them, or at least, that's what he thought. They were already part of him, he told himself, part of who he was. However, if there was something that overwhelmed him about the fact that someone else saw them, it was, above all things, having to remember why they were there.

Jesus stopped at the entrance. Daryl ducked his head, staring at the tiled floor.

"Something wrong?" Jesus asked slowly.

"No. Change this shit and let's go eat," Daryl growled.

Miraculously, the chatterbox didn't reply to him, instead, he just pointed to the toilet lid for him to sit, and started to undo the bandaged mess on his shoulder.

"Have you cleaned the sweat from the area?"

"You think I'm an idiot?"

"Not at all, I'm just asking you a question."

"Yes, I did," the archer said, softening his tone.

Jesus opened the little kit bag and took some new bandages. He placed a dressing over the wound in the front and then moved to do the same on the back. Daryl felt his breath quicken and his whole body stiffen. Then he waited anxiously for the other's man reaction, but for a few seconds that felt like minutes, he heard or noticed nothing. It looked like the chatterbox had vanished behind him. He imagined Jesus watching closely the huge scars spread like claws along his back. The archer had the urge to turn around and hurry the other man to finish what he was doing, but then he felt warm fingers on his skin.

Daryl failed to relax despite the prevailing silence while Jesus placed the other dressing, and finished bandaging the area around the wound. Perhaps it was because he knew that his silence was intentional, and he should feel grateful for the lack of interference from the person he thought of as _chatterbox_. A chatterbox who was suddenly sparing in words, and that fact, for some reason, bothered Daryl much more than he could have thought.

"One stitch split open," Jesus said, breaking into his thoughts "Alex is not going to take this well."

The Nurse's mention made Daryl feel a strange pinch of reality in his stomach. He didn't understand why, or what it meant, but he suddenly felt physically and emotionally naked.

"I'll say it was my fault."

"Of course it was your fault. But I let you come, so excuses are useless now. You're ready," Jesus moved around and picked up the kit, "Let's go down and eat something, there's a lot to be done before we can go."

Daryl didn't overlook the fact that, as he spoke, Jesus didn't turn to face him. Then the scout left the bathroom and went downstairs, offering him some privacy he wasn't sure he really wanted in that moment.


	7. Chapter 7

Paul waited patiently in the kitchen for Daryl to come down and join him for a quick meal, hoping to leave that place as soon as possible.

He blamed the stress accumulated during the past few days, the heat and the lack of sleep, as fatigue clung to his muscles like a bloodthirsty leech. But his body was not the only thing that seemed to be disconnecting itself from reality at times; he was aware that his mind was working at a much slower rate than normal. He did chalk it up back to his physical exhaustion, but he couldn't fool anyone; it was that archer, with his overly defensive attitude and anger, who was consuming the fuel off his brain.

He wanted to get out of there, and get away from this man, who was testing his mettle as thoroughly as he could. He needed to rest his body and mind. There'd been some moments when he'd even thought about going away and leaving Daryl there, if only for a few hours. Perhaps then, the archer would reconsider his attitude.

But that was before entering the bathroom and seeing that rude and surly man, shrugging like a frightened puppy, in the same way the cat had done in the pharmacy, to a hand that only sought to provide a little help. A caged animal, willing to charge anyone trying to approach him. Someone who can't understand his feelings, and believes nothing and no one could do him any good.

He saw the scars marking his back, and his throat had gone dry and tight at that moment. He would have liked to ask, and he knew that, at any other time and perhaps with anyone else, he would have done it. But he had felt the rigidity of his muscles, and the way he had nailed his eyes at the floor, wrapped in an unfair shame. He was not able to imagine who could have done something like that to him, and although he was sure that the physical damage was completely buried, it was obvious that the emotional pain had clung to him, in no hurry to let him escape.

He heard heavy footsteps on the stairs and soon after Daryl appeared in the kitchen. The archer sat down and began to eat as he was starving, not even waiting for him. Paul stared at him for a few seconds, then he looked down at is own food and suddenly he wasn't hungry anymore.

"You gonna eat that?" Daryl asked after a while. Paul pushed his food to him without a word "I've been thinking," Daryl said after a moment of silence "we should take a different route, look for a secondary road and avoid dirt tracks."

Paul nodded slowly, "yes, you're right." He took a quick glance at the archer and then began to collect the leftovers. "I also think we should drop the idea of looking for a bigger car; if they're hanging around here we should take one lighter and faster. We'll take the essentials and store the rest for another time."

"Another time you can come alone?" Daryl asked hoarsely without taking his eyes off his meal.

Paul didn't respond, he simply stood and reached into the backpack.

"Here," he said placing a pill on the table "I know it's hurting."

"I'm fine. We shouldn't waste drugs."

"No one will miss a miserable pill, Daryl. Also, I need to make sure I won't have to listen to you whining during the trip."

Daryl turned to look at him but before he could say anything, Paul left the kitchen.

* * *

It took them almost three hours to load everything into the car. From the gynecology clinic they finally only took some work utensils and left the rest in a safe place. Then they made the tour around the pharmacies, where they gleefully discovered that the cat, indeed, had returned to eat the cookie. With regards to the drugs, they had to rearrange the boxes to take only what Harlan had listed. And although unfortunately they hadn't found everything listed, the booty was much more substantial than they had expected.

Paul finished bringing order to the 4x4's trunk while Daryl sat in the passenger's seat studying the maps.

"This looks like a good route," Daryl said when Paul sat in the driver's seat "it's the long way around, but looks safe."

"How much longer?"

"Around one hundred and twenty miles."

"One hundred and twenty miles? No way. That means two more hours of driving, which would make a total of six hours." Paul shook his head. "It's getting dark. If we drive at night we'll be exposed. We'll have to wait until tomorrow and–"

"Let's wait then." Paul turned to face the archer with a wrinkled brow, "What? Maggie is ok, right? It's just a few more hours. We'll leave at sunrise, and during the day we can explore on the way."

Paul settled back into the seat. He didn't want to stay, but he was aware that soon night would sift down over them and driving in the dark under the protection of two simple headlights, and with the Saviors lurking around as predators, was not a good idea whatever path they chose.

"Okay," Paul said calmly, "Yes, you're right. I don't think they expect us at Hilltop this soon anyway. We were lucky after all. Let's go back to the house and wait for dawn."

After hiding the car in a garage nearby, the two men returned to the house that had become their refuge during the past day. They still had some bread left and Paul offered it to Daryl, but he refused it, assuring him that he was not hungry.

The night soon covered everything, allowing the moonlight to timidly tinge the environment with its silver tones.

When Paul walked past Daryl's room, he found the archer sitting on the same chair where he had fallen asleep the night before. His eyes sparkled as he looked thoughtfully into the night.

"Do you miss it?" Paul asked. Daryl turned around with a confused frown. "The world… what it was."

The archer looked back at the darkness reigning beyond the window. Paul wasn't sure if the man was pondering an answer or he simply didn't care to offer him one. Then Daryl shrugged his shoulders.

"Don't know," he said in a contemplative tone. "You?"

The question caught him off guard. He guessed the man was just being polite, but he was speaking to Daryl after all, he doubted the archer cared about good manners or was even interested in what he had to say. Paul hesitated for a second, but when he opened his mouth again the answer was firm and simple:

"No."

The scout could feel Daryl's eyes riveted on his back as he left and headed to the other room for the night. Paul sat on the bed looking forward to some rest before hitting the road again. He closed his eyes, but he knew that sleep was going to be a complicated task. There were too many things racing through his mind, and for a moment he felt dizzy.

He thought of the people of Alexandria, about Rick and his terrible emotional state. About Maggie and the hard path awaiting her. He thought about Negan and the Saviors, and their strong desire for power. Gregory and how his shortcomings as a leader had weakened Hilltop. He thought of his people and their vulnerability. He thought about Alex and how unfair he was being to him. And he also thought about Daryl and the self-blame that made him move around this chaotic world like a headless chicken.

The blame.

Abbie's image wiped out all the other thoughts. Paul put his hands to his face with a deep sigh. Then he sat on the bed and looked out the window, staring at the moon, concentrating all his attention on that shining beacon, and silently asking it to hurry its descent from the sky, to let the sun bring them a new opportunity to move forward.

* * *

"Hey, _Sleeping Beauty_. Let's go."

Paul didn't open his eyes when he heard Daryl's voice. He had heard him get out of his room and lurk around until he had stopped at his door.

He calculated that he had fallen asleep for a couple of hours. In the end, the fatigue had been stronger than his mind, and he had fallen into a deep sleep that came accompanied by some distorted memories that didn't comfort his brief rest. He had woken up abruptly, disoriented; it did take him few seconds to place himself. When he finally did, and after checking there was no other movement in the house, he had closed his eyes again, letting the silence fill his ears with an intense calm. And that's how he had spent the hours until the archer stood up with the first rays of sun.

" _The Sleeping Beauty_ needed a kiss to wake up," Paul said with eyes still closed.

"You're already awake," he growled.

Paul smiled when he heard Daryl's footsteps on the stairs. He joined him in the porch shortly after. The archer was waiting for him, smoking.

"I guess healthy living habits are not for the Apocalypse."

"Who the hell cares about that when a bullet, an arrow or a fucking bat, are waiting at every corner?"

Paul knew the arrow mention was not casual. That's how Denise, Alexandria's doctor, had died. An accident he was told about on his last visit at the community. Maggie had told him how much Daryl had blamed himself for what happened, and it was obvious he still did.

The scout took a deep breath letting the damp morning air fill his lungs. I was a warm day, but unlike the previous one, a nice breeze was running, injecting his muscles with a singular energy. He even offered himself to go get the car while the archer finished his cigarette.

They'd been driving for about twenty minutes, when Paul saw something peek between the trees lining along the road.

"Look at that," He said to Daryl, who despite knowing the route, was still studying the maps.

The archer looked up, and saw two large buildings connected to each other appear to their right. One was lower and elongated, and the other one was taller and narrower, and on top of it were some gigantic corporate letters that read "VARELLA RICE FACTORY".

Paul diverted quickly, taking the access road to the factory.

"You want to go here?" Daryl asked puzzled.

"Do you have any idea how long rice can last?"

"Have you seen the size of this place? Who knows what's inside, and there's only two of us."

Paul ignored the archer and after opening the entrance gate easily, he stopped the car behind one of the buildings, hiding it from any curious passersby that might cross that road just as they had done.

"We don't have space to take whatever's in there, if we even find anything. Aren't you supposed be the wise man of the two?" Daryl kept protesting.

"I'm just going to take a look."

"We're losing time."

"You know what? One of the reasons I like to travel alone–"

"You don't want to save anyone's ass."

"I would save the ass of whoever needed it. Another thing is that I think it's an unnecessary nuisance. What I meant is that when you travel alone you don't have to answer to anyone. Anyway, don't worry; it won't take me too long; like I told you, I'm just going take a look. Meanwhile, you can do something productive by preventing people from stealing our car."

Paul got out and just as he'd imagined, the archer did the same.

"Yer mad if you think I'm gonna stay here."

"We had a deal."

"Fuck that."

"Daryl–"

The archer ignored Paul and walked resolutely toward the door from what looked like the production area. Paul shook his head and followed him.

"You're lucky you have an injured shoulder, otherwise I wouldn't be making exceptions that only waste my time," the scout said, joining him.

Paul approached the steel doors and hit them repeatedly. The two men waited in silence for a while without hearing anything. Paul looked at Daryl frowning, but then they heard something, it was a distant hissing sound, increasing gradually. The scout got closer to the door in an attempt to hear it better, and he was about to say something when a loud noise coming from inside surprised them.

The scout stepped back immediately, "fuck…"

Both fixed their eyes on the doors. The blows were intensifying with the passing seconds and the grunts and shrieks became increasingly deafening.

"Shit, how many are in there?" Daryl asked.

"I don't know, but the noise could attract others" Paul said.

"Let's go."

Paul looked around, showing great reluctance.

"There could be a ton of food in there. I'll try to look through one of the windows."

"Hell, you…" Daryl rubbed his face with a hand "Okay, I need a weapon."

"Thought you had one."

Daryl showed him his only form of defense and Paul huffed; he wasn't surprised at all that the archer had lied to him.

"You should be in the car," the scout protested.

"I need something anyway, I can't do shit with this damn knife."

Reluctantly Paul unsheathed one of his knives and handed it to him.

"Don't move," Paul said.

Then, leaving Daryl there, Paul ran to a huge container that was placed next to one of the walls. He jumped over it and climbed up an emergency staircase that zigzagged through the front of the building. From there he reached a small open window, sat on the windowsill and leaned in carefully to see what was inside. It was a large open space filled with machines and pipes tangled throughout the entire floor. But aside from its abandoned look, the factory seemed to be intact. He then turned his attention to the main door and watched with disgust the large group of walkers thronging desperately on the door attracted by the noise and driven by ravenous hunger.

"How many?" he heard Daryl's voice.

They were so crammed together that it was almost impossible to distinguish them individually.

"A dozen… maybe more," he said.

He couldn't hear him well from up there, but he was sure Daryl had dropped an expletive.

"Come down, forget it," the archer said looking around nervously.

"Don't worry, I have it under control."

"What?"

"Keep banging on the door."

"What the fuck are you–"

With his protests whistling in the background, Paul slipped through the window and went inside the factory.

* * *

Daryl swatted the metal doors, while blaspheming irritated by the wrong course the trip had taken. They were doing well, they were returning with a good load of medicine. The road, despite being a secondary route, was in perfect state, so the extra miles were not a major problem. Why did they have to stop? Yes, the food was important, but not their priority in that moment. They could be on the road gaining a lot of time, and yet he was here, slamming that fucking door like an idiot because that damned chatterbox had deicide to sneak into a factory, filled with walkers, alone.

Suddenly something at the other side caught his attention. The guttural sounds of the dead drowned another kind of whining, but he could hear it clearly. That fucker was fighting them; he could imagine him digging his sharp knife into their rotten skulls. Daryl was quick to hit the doors even harder, trying to divert the attention of those who were still alive, and give Jesus some advantage.

Then he heard a loud noise accompanied by a strange moan, and then he didn't hear anything else, only an eerie silence.

For a few seconds, maybe minutes, he could hear nothing but the carefree birdsong. Daryl felt his heart quicken and his hand clung tightly to the knife's handle that Jesus had given him.

"Where are you…?" He hissed. But nothing seemed to move in the other side "You fool! I knew–"

A sudden clang alarmed the archer. He stepped back almost inadvertently, while the doors opened sliding to both sides, and revealing Jesus's figure. The scout was still wearing his bandana, spattered with blood, over his face.

Daryl took a look behind him to the decomposed and malodorous bodies lying inert on the ground. Then he turned his attention to the other man, his chest rising and falling rapidly with each deep breath, as a reminder of what had just happened there, but his eyes showed the reflection of a satisfied smile hidden beneath the cream-colored fabric.

"All clear" Jesus said.

Daryl approached him and pushed him hard.

"You fucking asshole! They could have killed you!"

Jesus blinked surprised by the archer's attitude, but his expression remained calm as he slid down the bandana.

"Calm down, I had everything under control," the scout replied calmly.

Daryl huffed, "we shouldn't be here, we should be on the road. This is bullshit. What if they'd bitten you, huh? How I was supposed to help?"

Daryl noticed that Jesus moved his lips to say something but the words didn't materialize. Though he knew, because he could see it through his crystal eyes, that the words were there, in his mind, and if they didn't come out from that big mouth of his, it was clearly because he was biting his tongue.

The archer was not stupid; he was more than aware that he was not the best person to reproach anyone about reckless attitudes and was more than certain that Jesus was about to throw his darts in that same direction. Instead, the scout turned away from him and walked inside the factory.

"Wait in the car, it won't take me long."

"No fuckin' way."

"Listen," he said, turning to look at him. "You're right, it was a stupid thing to do and it's all my doing. You don't have to take on responsibilities you didn't ask for. Trust me, go back to the car, I'll be right back."

Despite his words Daryl followed Jesus inside the factory. The scout shook his head but said nothing else. They walked past the big steel vats with large tubes connecting with some automated machines. Not so long ago this huge space was filled by the bustling sound of the daily work. Now it was just a concrete skeleton that lay dormant.

"Look at that," Jesus said, pointing to a door with the "INFIRMARY" legend on its frame.

They approached it and the scout, knife in hand, opened the door slowly. After making sure there was nothing that could attack them inside, they went in. It was a small room; in the middle were a table and a pair of chairs. To their right, against the wall, was a stretcher, and on the opposite side were a couple of cupboards and cabinets. Jesus forced the metal cabinets and inside he found some medical equipment, sealed syringes, test tubes, and some vaccines to treat possible accidents.

"Look for a bag, we'll take all of this."

After emptying the infirmary, the two men continued to explore the factory's ground floor, until they reached a double door where there was a sign announcing the storehouse. Just as he had done previously, Jesus came forward to verify the area was clear. He carefully slid one of the doors open.

"Oh my god…" he said in amazement, and then he moved the door completely, "look at this."

His voice was soft but he couldn't hide his enthusiasm, and it was no wonder. Daryl stepped forward and saw with fascination the mountains of rice sacks piled up in groups along the entire plant. No one had touched this since the world had collapsed and all of it was now theirs.

Jesus got in first and touched the bags as if he doubted they were real. The archer joined him; studying the plunder they had just found and he couldn't help but feel the scout's emotion. It was an important find he had no doubt about it. The two looked at each other and smiled like two young children.

"With all this, not only we can supply Hilltop and Alexandria, but also Negan."

"Negan? Fuck him."

"Daryl, my people work hard to fulfill the agreement we have with the Saviors. This could relive them of a major burden."

Daryl looked away. He supposed Jesus was right. In fact he knew he was right. Hilltop had been working for the Saviors from the start and now they were also working for them. Obviously the deal they had with Alexandria had nothing to do with the agreement they'd reached with Negan. Which reminded him that his community was now under the orders of that lunatic. The same fucker who'd killed Glenn in cold blood, in front of all of them.

"Let's take a look, and find another way out. Then we'll secure this place so no one else can get in," Jesus said.

"This has been abandoned for years."

"Yes, but best not to take risks, you never know when someone may come out of nowhere with a bunch of firecrackers."

The archer gave Jesus a disdainful look, and then they separated and walked between the rows formed by the pile of sacks. Daryl surveyed with astonishment the amount of food they had before them. He couldn't even imagine how they would transport all of this. They needed a large vehicle, and that was not the best option to go unnoticed. Anyone could stop them along the way, or what's worse: follow them. The other option was to leave everything there, as if it was their own storehouse; unfortunately, the chatterbox was right, it was a risk not only because someone could intercept them on the road, but because they could find this place just as the pair had, and empty it.

The two men met again at the end; in front of them was a large sectional door.

"This has to be the loading door."

Jesus tried to open it but as he imagined, it was closed. He looked around and saw a small box next to the doors; he opened it and examined the cables.

"Were you a thief or something in your other life?" Daryl asked.

Jesus smiled as he cut some cables, triggered a manual lever and finally opened the door.

"Locksmith."

"Really?"

"No, but it would've been fun."

Daryl looked outside and squinted his eyes as if he had forgotten it was still day.

"We can take some bags now, then we'll close everything and come back another day."

The archer was about to accept the plan but then they hear a noise behind them. Those damn moans that they were getting so used to.

"You said the place was clear" Daryl protested.

"This floor, but the building is connected with the other one."

Jesus went before him to see how many walkers had followed them.

"Shit…"

Daryl approached him quickly and saw with dread, the large group of walkers entering the storehouse. He looked at Jesus who was already wielded his knife and looking around probably concocting a plan in his head.

"Okay…" Jesus said, trying to sound calm "we have to lure them out of here and seal the store against anyone or anything coming inside. You go out and close this door. I'll take care of them."

"You fuckin' crazy? Have you seen how many there are?"

"Daryl, don't have time to argue with you, get out of here and head back to the car."

Jesus spoke calmly but he had hardened his tone more than what was usual for him. That was not enough to persuade Daryl. There were too many walkers and it was impossible that he could restrain them all by himself. He was not going to turn around and go back to the car like a fucking coward while the other man risked his life for him and his people.

"Daryl, we don't–"

But the archer didn't listen, he ran toward the horde of beings that were eager to kill them indiscriminately.

"Daryl! Fuck!"

Daryl was not left-handed, so he struggled to adapt to having to use his left arm to throw his knife against the skull of those walkers. He had killed two or three, he wasn't sure, and he had done it quite easily, but he felt his movements were clumsy and slow. That hadn't been a good idea, and he cursed himself for his stupid incapacity. If it weren't for his shoulder, he would be fighting them with full confidence. But in that moment he felt like a naive beginner that didn't quite know what he was doing. He looked around to see if Jesus was there with him but didn't see him. Then he took a quick glance behind him and thought he saw the scout run out the loading door.

It had to be a fucking joke; he was gone. He had left him alone.

He wanted to go back, but it was too late, so he had no other option but to find a gap between them to leave the storehouse and try to get out of there. But there were a lot of walkers, too many, where the hell had they come from?

He continued relentlessly brandishing his knife but his movements became slower which each attempt. He also noticed he was having trouble thinking clearly; he was only able to see hands and teeth everywhere.

Suddenly he heard a strange sound, like shots coming from the other side of the factory. Firecrackers, he was sure of it. He took a deep breath and imagined with some relief that Jesus had entered through the main door and was trying to attract the walkers attention to draw them out. For the moment it seemed to work. Suddenly a group of them lost interest in him and turned around to the strange noise that reverberated with a deep echo throughout the floor.

Daryl finished two more walkers, and then he managed to make a space and get out of the quagmire that had snared him. When he finally left the storehouse, he saw that Jesus had shut the main door and was moving swiftly, leaving a trail of corpses behind him. But there were still too many walkers. At that point they both knew it was impossible to get rid of them all, and the only solution was to leave them locked in the production area and isolate the storehouse.

As Jesus made his way, Daryl tried to distract a group of them to keep them away from the store.

"Get back inside!"

He heard Jesus screaming as he moved fairly quickly. Daryl gave in to his orders, killing and dodging walkers, and began making his way back to the storehouse. Something happened in that moment; he couldn't see what it was, but one second Jesus stood and the next he was on the ground with two of those beings over him, and others advancing in his direction.

"Shit…"

Daryl wanted to run over there and help him, but he was surrounded again.

"No, go away!"

The archer shook off three walkers and, still struggling, he tried to decide what to do next: listen to Jesus and go back to the storehouse or try to lend him a hand. The scout killed two of them, but there was another group that almost fell over him. Daryl then watched in shock horror as one of those things stuck its teeth into Jesus's right arm. The scout groaned at the unexpected contact but he eventually managed to stab the knife into its head.

Something clicked inside Daryl in that moment. He couldn't run like a pushover, he had to help the other man. He had to act as he had done on so many occasions. He knew he could do it. But the adrenaline was not enough and when he raised his right arm, barely noticing what he was doing, he felt a deep pain that ran through every inch of his body.

"Run!" he heard.

Daryl looked up and saw Jesus, who had somehow managed to get up and out of the pitfall, but the pain had left him so stunned that he didn't realized that one of the walkers had grabbed his arm and was about to bite him when Jesus took it off. The scout grabbed Daryl and practically dragged him, pushing him into the storehouse.

The archer stumbled against something, he didn't see what it was, but he realized that the cries of the walkers were drowning behind the door. He heard the sound of something similar to chains and he assumed that Jesus was blocking the entrance so that nothing else could get in there. He didn't hear him complain or even breathe; he just could hear him running from side to side like a maniac. Then he remembered that he had been bitten, he saw it with his own eyes. He had panicked, glimpsing again those teeth over his leather coat. Daryl chuckled. _That_ stupid coat, it might not be that stupid after all.

Everything had gone horribly wrong, and he couldn't help but feel like a completely useless moron. That fucking Dwight had made him a bloody wreck, who couldn't even touch the tip of his nose with his crippled arm, much less could help control a large group of walkers. His impetus to do something good and useful had almost killed him and Jesus.

He felt the presence of the other man behind him.

"What did you think you were doing?"

Again his words drifted in the air with calmness, but his tone was so cold that even the obtuse archer shivered.

"What the hell were you thinking, Daryl?"

He didn't want to hear him. Not now. Not there. He knew he had made a big mistake but he didn't want to think about it, he just wanted to leave that place and return to Hilltop. No, what he really wanted was to go home, go back to his people.

"Daryl…"

Shut up.

"Fuck, have they bitten–?"

He felt the other man's hand on his arm and without a single second to think about what he was doing, he turned around and punched Jesus on the cheek. The intense pain he felt over his knuckles returned him back to reality. He saw the scout go back in surprise, and stumble against one of the piles of sacks, while he brought a hand to his face.

While Jesus tried to compose himself, Daryl watched him in bewilderment, what had he done? He sighed, annoyed; the whole situation was getting to him. Everything was. Perhaps Jesus had been right. Maybe the reason he insisted to join him on that trip was not Maggie, maybe he did it for himself in his eagerness to prove that he was still a capable and decisive person.

He felt selfish and guilty. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to apologize to his people, he wanted to apologize to Maggie and he wanted to apologize to the man in front of him, who was looking at him like he was a complete stranger. But the words didn't fully form in his throat.

He turned his attention to Jesus, who had moved from where he was, still touching his cheek. Then he walked up to him, his eyes were cloudy with a fury he was struggling to contain and then, in a gesture that Daryl could barely register, he snatched the knife he was still holding. Daryl would have expected the scout to return the blow; he knew he was more than capable of doing it. But Jesus simply said:

"Go back to the car."


	8. Chapter 8

After blocking the entrance to the storehouse, removing the bodies of those who had perished there, and packing five sacks of rice in the car, they set off again towards Hilltop. Paul hoped that there weren't more unplanned stops; his priority was to get home as soon as possible, and forget everything that had happened.

Almost unconsciously he put a hand to his cheek, he could still feel the throb just where he had been hit. Paul was not a violent person, and although he was more than capable of defending himself, especially in a hand to hand fight, he always sought physical confrontation as the last of his options.

But he would have responded, he was totally sure that, in different circumstances, he would have made it very clear to the archer, that no one ever put a hand on him.

He had no idea what in hell was going through the head of that man, nor why he felt the urgent need to demonstrate his ability to not only fend for himself, but also to help others. But what happened in the storehouse was not going to happen again. Paul was understanding and patient, but even he, the _Saint_ , had some limits, and Daryl had gone off the rails.

The tension of the first day settled back over the car with more force if possible, smothering the crisp air around them. Paul took a quick look at Daryl who had leaned back in his seat and was looking out the window completely absorbed. He noticed that he was resting his left hand over his injured shoulder. It was obvious he was feeling some pain. The scout shook his head, why did he let him come? He let out an exhausted sigh. It didn't matter now; there was no turning back.

They continued the rest of the trip in silence until, much to the relief of both of them; they glimpsed Hilltop's high walls in the distance. They were received with the doors open and once Paul parked the car, he gave instructions to some men to take care of the rice's sacks and two others to help him carry all the medical supplies to the hospital trailer.

"Thanks guys, you can go now," Paul said once they deposited everything in the infirmary.

When the two young men left, Paul saw that Daryl had followed them and was standing near the door.

"You're back!" Paul turned when he hear Alex, who came out from behind the room divider that hid his tiny office "you both look tired, what have you brought?"

Alex jumped over the bags and boxes without even giving them time to answer.

"Quite a few things, not everything from the list, unfortunately. Where's Harlan?"

"He's with Maggie–"

"Somethin' wrong?" Daryl hastened to ask.

"No… she's fine, tired, but yesterday she went out for a walk. She looks a lot better."

"I'm glad to hear that," Paul said.

Alex nodded, then he looked up to devote him a smile, but his features transformed into a surprised expression once he laid his eyes on Paul's cheek.

"Oh my god! What happened?" He asked quickly, posing his hands on Paul's face.

"An accident."

"What kind of accident?"

"We were surrounded by a large group of walkers and things just got out of hand. But as a reward, we found a rice factory filled with food." Paul smiled satisfied with the good news, but Alex wasn't listening.

"A blood vessel is forming under the eye, does it hurt?"

"No, don't worry. Hey, can you take care of this and show it to Harlan? I'm going to see how Maggie is doing and then lie down for a while, I'm pretty tired."

Before Alex could say anything, Paul walked toward the door where Daryl was still planted like a statue.

"Oh! And…" Paul said before leaving the infirmary, "take a look at his shoulder, he tried to help me and I think he hurt himself."

* * *

Alex stared at the door for a while until he set his eyes on Daryl, who stood motionless in the same place.

"Come here, sit on that stretcher, we'll take a look at that shoulder."

The archer obeyed, and sat in the stretcher next to one of the small windows scattered around the trailer, which was the only source of natural light.

"Can you undress from the waist up?"

Daryl hesitated for a second, but then he realized that Alex had been taking care of him since his semiconscious arrival, and it probably wasn't the first time he saw him naked. He was sure that he and the doctor had seen the scars already and yet, neither had say a thing about it.

Nevertheless, even though Alex had his back turned to him at that moment, the archer felt a strong sense of discomfort as he removed his vest and shirt.

"Does it hurt now?" Alex asked as he turned to look at him.

"A bit."

"I see you're wearing a new bandage," he said in a tone that Daryl could only identify as leery. "I'll take it off and take a look at the wound, there's some blood on the dressing on your back."

Daryl stood completely still while the nurse did his job.

"What happened?"

"Eh?"

"You made a sudden move, did you fall…"

"A sudden move… I guess…"

"Where's your sling?"

"In the room."

"I see…" he said, with a bored tone, "Daryl, I understand you're an active person, but to heal a wound like this, time and patience are required. The wound will heal badly if you keep forcing things and you'll probably lose mobility in your arm." Alex waited a second but Daryl didn't say anything. "I see that a stitch has split open; it doesn't look bad, we could fix it with a closure strip, but I'd prefer to wait for Harlan's opinion. I'll clean the area and give you a fresh dressing, in the meantime."

There was something in the monotonous way Alex was addressing him, that was bothering Daryl. He wasn't sure if the nurse was just tired of having to deal with him, or whether he suspected that something was wrong.

"You're ready," he said, then opened a cupboard and pulled out a pill from a plastic bottle. "Take this after you eat something. It will help to ease the pain in your shoulder… and your hand."

Daryl covered his left hand almost immediately. He had already noticed that his knuckles were red and swollen.

For a moment the archer looked away with embarrassment, but with the security of not having to give any kind of explanation to the man in front of him, he turned to fix his defiant eyes on Alex. The nurse, however, didn't show signs of feeling intimidated by the way he was glaring at him.

"I understand you're going through a bad patch right know, Daryl Dixon, but I hope you understand that this community's hospitality has its limits," Alex said, gravely, "Paul is a beloved person here, and if those people discover you have done something to him, they wont hesitate, for one second, to send you out of the walls. I wont say anything this time because I know he wouldn't want me to do it. But if it crosses your mind to lay a hand on him again, I'll be the first to ask to get you kicked out of here," he paused to make sure Daryl was listening to him attentively "I'll tell Harlan to go see you. We've done here, you can go now."

Alex turned away and hid again, behind the room divider.

* * *

Paul was not expecting anyone, yet he didn't turn to see who had entered the room when he heard the door. After leaving the infirmary he had shown the medical toy briefcase to the kids who received it with enthusiasm. Then he went to see Maggie, and to his surprise he had found her on the house's main terrace. Her eyes were still showing a deep sadness, but she looked much stronger and ready to fight than previous days. After a brief chat, he took a quick shower and went to his room. The hot water had managed to relax him but not enough to help him sleep. So, he had decided to take refuge in a book.

"I thought you were going to sleep."

Alex approached him, placed some things on the nightstand, and sat on the edge of the bed.

"Me too, but my mind won't stop working; it's hard to sleep. So I thought it would be a good idea to distract it with some reading."

" _Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea_ , isn't that a bit far?"

"Not far enough, it seems…"

Alex smiled and then took the book off his hands.

"I was reading that," Paul protested.

"You can read later, now let me take a look at that eye."

The nurse moved a little closer and leaned forward to get a better look at the bruise.

"Are you a doctor now?" Paul joked.

"I spend a lot of time with Harlan, I've learnt some things. Does it hurt?"

"I'm fine."

"You have a big hematoma on the cheek and under the eye."

"Yeah, I've seen it. But don't worry, it doesn't hurt."

Alex ignored him and started to rummage through the things he had left on the nightstand, then he pulled out a plastic tube and applied some of the content on the back of his hand.

"What's that?" Paul asked.

"An ointment, it will help it to not get any uglier."

"Is that what worries you, that it's _ugly_?"

"Shut up," Alex said giving him a tap on the arm.

The men laughed quietly as Alex applied the gel on the bruised area.

"What happened?" he asked then.

"I told you, we got surrounded and the things just got a bit chaotic."

"And that's why he punched you?"

Paul sighed, exhausted. He knew half-truths didn't work with Alex; he was too smart and observant. Although he had wished not to have to delve deeper into the subject.

"Forget it," Paul said, trying to sound sharp.

"Why are you making excuses for him?" he asked, frustrated, putting the ointment back on the nightstand, "first you let him go when you knew perfectly well that it was a mistake, and now you're trying to downplay the fact that he punched you in the face."

"He was defending himself."

"From you?"

"From everything. Alex, you're a very intelligent person, I'm sure that you've seen for yourself that this man has a lot of demons in his mind."

Alex nodded slightly, "I saw you changed his bandage," he said, lowering his voice.

"What's this? Are you jealous, now?"

Alex drew a bitter smile, "those scars are horrible. Look, I'm really not trying to sound unsympathetic, it's obvious that he's dragging some trauma around, and I know that what happened a few days ago, it's not improving his situation. But that doesn't entitle him to behave the way he does towards the people who are just trying to help him."

"You're right," Paul said, stroking his arm gently. "I just… I'm trying to put myself in his place, that's all."

"You're such a good man, Paul Monroe, and that's what I like the most about you. Besides your eyes, that incredible beard and perfect hair; I admire and envy your generosity. However, I'm not so benevolent, and I promise that if he does something like that again, I'll swap his painkillers for a laxative."

Paul couldn't help but laugh out loud, and they both laughed at the nurse's overprotective outburst.

"Did you come just to talk about Daryl?" Paul asked, after a moment in which the two men stayed quiet, appreciating the tranquility offered by the house.

"I came to see how you were doing, and I'm not only talking about what has happened recently. Tomorrow is–"

"I know. I'm fine… God, I just can't believe it's been already six months."

Paul's voice had lost its intensity into a bitter whisper.

"The kids have made a wreath of flowers with her name. It was their idea, and it's beautiful."

Paul drew a sad smile. He didn't want to talk about it, and Alex noticed it too. The nurse cleared his throat and shifted.

"You know, Wes has been flirting with me."

"Wes? Really? I thought he was married before all this."

"Yes… but it looks like the new world is bringing people out of their den."

"What have you done?"

"Are you serious?"

"I don't know, you're telling me this for a reason, right? Or are you expecting me to be the one acting all jealous, now?"

Alex laughed, "It's just that when he comes up and starts telling me all those things, I can't help but think about you, and all the moments we've shared. Don't take me wrong, Paul, I know you work hard to bring security to this community, and I don't blame you for spending so much time away, but I miss it; I miss you. Do you remember when we simply sat together, and you read to me? Right now, I think I would be happy with just that."

"But you didn't come here _just_ for that, right?" Paul said with a knowing smile.

"Well, I have to be honest, _Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea_ is not one of my favorite books," Alex said. Then he raised his hands in a defeat mocking gesture, "Okay, I'll confess, but don't blame me for wanting to take advantage of these little moments, especially now. I don't know about you, but I have the feeling that things, unfortunately, will change very soon."

Paul raised his hand and stroked his cheek tenderly.

"You're extremely melodramatic, did you know that?"

"Yes, I'm guilty of that too."

They devoted a smile to each other and then Alex leaned forward and placed his lips on Paul's.

* * *

Paul moved through the darkened room, trying to make as little noise as possible to not wake Alex, who was sound asleep, face down, and with his naked body covered loosely by the tangled sheets.

He dressed quietly, putting on some gray sweatpants, and a shirt. Then he opened the closet and from a box he kept there, he pulled out a book. He walked toward the door and left the room, leaving the other one man alone.

While he walked down the hallway he felt a pang of guilt. Alex was always willing to give everything for him, and certainly he would do anything for Alex, but their relationship had never been formally established. They cared about each other, no one could doubt about that, and they enjoyed the time they could spend together, beyond sex. Because after all, sex was easy, but the feelings were much more difficult to control, and from the outset he had made it very clear that he wasn't seeking to tie himself to anything or anyone. Alex had shown no objections and most of the time the two did their part. Still, he felt bad, because deep down he knew that Alex hoped to consolidate their relationship in some way, and he was frustrated for not being able to meet his expectations.

That night, he was carried away, not even his weariness had been able to stop him. He needed it. He needed to let himself go and release all the tension that throbbed through his whole body. And he would have liked to stay and wake up next to Alex, and see his smile, probably sad, because that didn't happen more often, but still happy for what they were able to share.

But sleep was not in his plans, and not only for all the things that had happened recently, and what was to come. As noted by Alex, tomorrow was the twenty-seventh, a number he had learned to hate in secret.

Consumed by his own thoughts, he went up the spiral staircase leading to the viewpoint at the top of Barrington House. It was a small octagonal room, with high but narrow windows on each of its walls. From there you could see several miles away. A good lookout spot, yet rarely used, because the walls were also high and more accessible. So that place had become a sort of refuge for him, a place to escape when he was not out on runs, trying to recruit people or trading with other groups.

The moonlight coming through the eight windows illuminated the room like a black and white photograph. He sat in a chair next to one of the windows and looked at the book in his hands. The book of fables, Abbie's favorite.

He remembered the nights the girl stayed home with him and Benjamin, when her parents took the opportunity to have some social life, and he read her the book until she fell asleep. He also recalled the times when, with the world already ended, he sat beside her and taught her to transform those printed letters into words, because Abbie had decided she wanted to be able to read the book by herself.

" _An eagle sat on a lot… lofy…_ "

"Lofty."

" _Lofty rock, watching the movements of a Hare whom he sought to make his prey_."

Paul smiled as Abbie slid her eyes over the words accompanying them with her index finger.

"You're kidding me right?" He said while sharpening a large knife he had found in an abandoned hardware store, "you know that book by heart."

They were resting in a car they had found halfway, sheltering in its shade waiting for the afternoon to cool the warm and dry environment around them.

"Is not true."

"Yes it is, I'll have to get you another book, one for big kids, what about _The Little Prince_?"

"Boring."

Paul opened the book where _The Eagle and the Arrow_ fable was.

At that time they had been travelling for three months, and had not yet come to settle anywhere. He knew it was best to avoid big cities, firstly because people were still very confused about what was going on, and you never knew what to expect from them. And secondly, because it was easier to avoid contact with the dead. So they embarked on a path between fields, mountains and forests, and only went into towns for some temporary shelter and food.

One day they met a man, one of many whom they had met and left behind, but he remembered that man as if it were yesterday. He was around fifty, pudgy, although his clothes started to get loose, a sign that he had been eating poorly for some time.

Paul was reluctant about the stranger at first. He promised to give him some food but after that he had to go away. However, Alfred, that's how he was called, told them that he had lost his wife and children recently, and he was just looking for some company. Paul finally let him stay with them temporarily.

Everything seemed normal until after a few days Paul noticed a change in Alfred's behavior. He was nervous, sometimes he stuttered, but what worried him the most was the strange fixation he had begun to develop for Abbie.

One of those watch-nights, in which Benjamin's memories attacked him relentlessly, he discovered Alfred sitting beside Abbie's sleeping body. He was stroking her hair, but not in the way a parent could miss a lost son. There was an evident darkness in those eyes staring at the girl. A darkness that, unfortunately, he recognized very well. When Alfred noticed he was being watched, he turned away immediately.

The next day, Paul warned Alfred to not go near the girl, and if in any case he tried touch her again, he wouldn't hesitate to cut off his hands. Aware that wasn't a mere threat, Alfred apologized, assuring that he was simply missing his family, and that he would leave them alone in the next town they came across.

Two days later, taking advantage of the fact that Alfred had gone into the woods looking for firewood, Paul let Abbie take a dip in a river, and clean herself so she could use the brand new, clean clothes he had found for her. Everything was normal until Paul heard some strange moans not far from there. Armed with his knife, he sidled up to discover Alfred hidden behind some bushes, masturbating, as he watched the girl swim in the water. He was so absorbed that he didn't even notice his presence. Then Paul took Abbie out of the river trying to sound calm and not scare her.

A few hours later, and after finding a safe place to spend the night, Paul asked Alfred to accompany him to look for more firewood and check the perimeter. The man tried to avoid it, claiming that he was not very good at dealing with the dead, and offered to stay and take care of the girl, but Paul insisted.

Once they were far enough away and alone, Paul didn't hesitate for a second: he plunged his knife into Alfred's neck and cracked it from side to side.

Alfred was the first person he had killed. In a world without laws, he had decided to act as judge and executioner, and it scared him that he didn't feel any remorse for it.

After hiding his body, and making sure he wouldn't get up again, he returned to the shelter. Abbie asked about Alfred, but Paul simply said that he was gone.

"I'm glad," the girl said to his surprise, "I didn't like him."

Then she sat on his lap, snuggling up to him with her head resting on his chest and the book of fables in her hands

"Can we read?"

In that moment Paul had realized that the threat was greater than the dead walking among them. People with a disturbed conscience were perhaps a worse enemy, and he felt a throbbing anguish in his chest, he feared not being able to always be there to protect Abbie.

He meditated on it for several days, weeks even, but he finally came to the conclusion that he had to teach the girl to defend herself.

"Hold the knife tightly," he urged the girl as she kneeled in front of an expired watermelon he had found by chance in one of his routine rounds.

Abbie tried to do what Paul was telling her.

"Harder, Abbie," he said as he watched the girl brandishing the knife "Come on, Abbie, I know you can do it better. With more strength."

"I can't"

"Yes, you can, Abbie, come on."

The girl stabbed over and over again, doing what she could with her weak hands and tears forming in her eyes.

"Abbie, more…"

"No! I don't want to!"

"Abbie you have…"

"No! Let me!" she shouted throwing the knife into the ground "Why do we have to be here? I want to go home!"

That night Abbie was moving restlessly in her sleeping bag, still upset about what had happened, and Paul felt the world was coming down on him. She was only six years old, an innocent soul who should be playing with dolls, ignoring the hostile world around her. What was he doing? But he knew he had no choice. The world had changed and there was no space to make up the circumstances they were living in, because that would only bring the death that lurked around hungry.

He came over and sat next to her, and Abbie clung to him as he did.

"I'm so sorry" He said, "I know you don't want to do it, but you have to learn."

"Why?"

"Because I wont be here forever and then you will have to take care of yourself."

The girl looked up, studying him with her big green eyes, "are you going to leave me alone?"

"No, honey, no. You know I would never do that. But you're a smart and very observant girl, and I know you are aware that there are a lot of dangers out there. If things go wrong and something happened to me…"

"Don't say that. Nothing will happen to you. I won't let anything happen to you."

Those words injected something into Paul's heart, and he could barely hold back the tears forming in his eyes. The same tears that now were trickling down his cheeks, almost two years later.

Then he heard the access door downstairs, and then steps up the spiral staircase. He imagined that Alex was not so asleep after all and had followed him there.

He wiped the tears and took a deep breath before returning his gaze to meet his visitor. And he couldn't help but frown when he saw that who peeked through the stairwell was no other than Daryl Dixon.

"Oh, it's you…"

Paul looked away while Daryl passed by him and walked as if pretending the other man wasn't present. He stood facing one of the tall windows and looked out at the nightscape.

"How's your shoulder?" Paul asked in a tired tone.

"The doctor stuck a strip of whatever-that-shit's-called on it. Other than that, it's fine. How 'bout your eye?"

"Aside from the double vision, it's perfect."

Daryl turned immediately, taken aback by his words, until he realized that Paul was kidding.

"You're a jerk. You ever take things seriously?"

"I take everything very seriously, Daryl, a bit too much, actually. But as far as I know, sense of humor and common sense are not incompatible."

"What if I tell you yer not fuckin' funny."

"That would be disappointing… but I could live with it."

Daryl muttered something that Paul wasn't able to understand, and turned back to the window, as he nervously scratched his head, and cleared his throat.

"Look," he said, "Straight to the point: I'm sorry I–"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever. It's ok, forget it." Paul interrupted him.

"What?"

"That you didn't want to do it, that you have too many things on your mind, that it got out of hand. That you've just lost a friend, that you've been shot, that your community has problems… and because all of this, you're frustrated and angry, and you jump over whoever is in your way. But hey, I get it, ok? Although I really think it's time for you to man up and face things like the adult male that you are, and stop acting up like a teenager."

Daryl stepped forward facing Paul, who was still sitting in his chair, "I'm sick of your insinuations. You have no fucking idea what you're talking about, what I've suffered, what we've–"

"No?" Paul interrupted him again, "do you really think you are the only person who has suffered the consequences of what's happened to the world? Do you really think you're the only person who has lost someone unfairly? Do you really think you're the only one who feels lost? Let me open your eyes, Daryl Dixon: no, you're not. All these people you see here, in this community, have suffered as much as you have, if not more. Everyone has left behind a life and people they loved. And many of them still don't even know where their place is. Do you think that they appeared in Hilltop magically? No. Everyone's been out there like you, and like me. And it doesn't matter how long, because in the end the important thing is that everyone is fully aware of what's on the other side of those walls, even if they aren't ready or able to face it. They've all lost someone along the way, and yet they keep going on. They have learned to overcome it and to live with it, because after all, we have no choice, Daryl. We're still here. For better or for worse, we have an opportunity to continue with our lives. So, wake the fuck up and stop acting like a kamikaze because all you're going to get is someone hurting or killing you. And for what? They're not coming back, Daryl, and here and now, there are people who need you, and even if you're unable to recognize it yourself; you need them too."

Daryl clenched his jaw, Paul imagined he had gone too far, but he knew the archer needed that slap back to reality. So he gave him a few seconds to digest everything he'd just spat in his face.

Daryl's chest rose and fell quickly, showing openly, and probably against his will, that his words had really affected him. However, the archer didn't say anything and just looked at him intently. Paul sighed, clutching the book he held in his hands, and stood up to approach the other man.

"You know the worst part of it all? I don't think you're even aware of what you have," Paul said with sadness in his voice, "I don't know what happened to you in the past, but whatever it was you need to lay it to rest, and focus on the family you have now, because you have it. People who would do anything for you, just as you would do for them. And yet, for some reason I don't quite understand, you don't let them get near you, don't let them help you. Somehow you're still terrified, and you're ashamed of that fragility. But there's nothing wrong with that, Daryl. There's nothing wrong with being afraid, or feeling pain, or anger or showing weakness, because we all do. But you… you let those feelings dominate you" Paul paused for a second to catch some air "Maybe you think I'm not the right person to tell you this, and you may be right. So if you think I'm wrong you have every right to ask me to shut my mouth."

To his surprise Daryl looked down at the floor, and suddenly Paul felt guilty.

"Listen," he continued, "I know that it's all too recent, and you're still adjusting to what happened. It's ok, we all need time. And during that time there're moments where it's necessary to deal with the pain alone. But that's not a reason to kick off people who are trying to help you. You have no idea how comforting a simple hug can be."

"I hope you're not thinking about giving me one," Daryl tried to joke, but his voice sounded distressed.

Paul drew a smile.

"I'm trying to bury the hatchet, and offer you a hand. Anyway, I'm not talking about me. I'm talking about Rick, Michonne, Aaron, Carol, Maggie… think about her, Daryl. She has lost her father, her sister, her husband, and despite all the grief she feels, she shows an admirable strength. She asks about you and the others all the time. She fights to be able to move from the bed, and go out on her own to face the world again. Everyone is different, obviously, but you're stronger than you probably think. You just need to open your eyes."

Daryl nodded and then turned to return his attention to the window. His eyes glistened in the moonlight.

"You were crying," He said, "when I came up, I heard you."

"As I said, we all have weaknesses."

"Yours are kid's books?"

Paul smiled but he felt a twinge in his stomach when he laid his eyes back on the book.

"We've already had a pretty intense conversation for today…"

"Conversation? You're the only one speakin' here."

"You're not exactly what I would call a talkative person, Dixon, someone has to fill the silence. At least I hope the lecture serves you for something."

"Thanks," Daryl said in an almost imperceptible voice "An' I'm serious. Sorry for hittin' you, I wasn't thinkin'…"

"It's already forgotten. But let me warn you," Paul said, lowering his voice and narrowing the space between them, "if you ever try something like that again, I promise you that I won't let it slide as if nothing happened. And between you and me, I think we both know who would win that fight."

Paul winked at him, and after giving him a tap on the shoulder, he left the viewpoint.

When he returned to his room he found Alex sitting on the bed tying his shoes.

"Hey…"

"Hi…" Alex replied.

"You're leaving?"

"Yes… I… well, I woke up and saw that you weren't in bed, and I thought it was silly to stay."

"I'm sorry, I couldn't sleep and didn't want to wake you up."

"Well, you should try, Paul. I mean sleep, of course. I'm used to everything else."

"Alex…"

"No, it's ok. I know this is what it is, it's my fault; I'm desperately seeking a routine where you can have one. It's silly to obsess about trying to have a normal relationship, when there are dead people walking around or heartless fuckers like Negan out there, right? "

"We've lived with heartless fuckers before."

"You're right," Alex said, shaking his head "Maybe I'm still not used to this new world…"

"Who is?"

"I'd say you're pretty much made for this, Paul."

"I'll take that as a compliment. Anyway, you don't have to go."

Alex approached Paul, and placed his hands on both sides of his face.

"I should go. You need to rest. You're one of the handsomest men I ever met, Paul Monroe, but you look like shit. And I'm not just talking about the black eye."

Paul closed his eyes when he felt the nurse's lips over the contusion on his cheek. After that, Alex left the room.

* * *

The next day, and after his daily visit to Maggie, he had asked Earl Sutton, the blacksmith, to make him a new knife.

"Do you want something special?" The man had asked.

"You're the artist, surprise me."

Then he had gone to the storeroom to revise the sacks of rice with Crystal. He had helped her to distribute the content in one-kilo bags, and organized them in piles to distribute between Hilltop and Alexandria, and reserved another important part for the saviors. Then he had met with Brianna, who insisted on showing him the new milk bread rolls she was baking. The smell made his stomach growl, so she asked him to stay to eat with her and her son.

All of them had mentioned his black eye, but he had brushed off the issue, saying it had been just an unfortunate accident.

Early in the afternoon he met with Gregory, who walked around the colony observing all the activity as if he really were aware of all the work his people had to deal with.

"What happened to you?" the gray-haired man asked when he saw him.

"Nothing important. How are you today?"

"Fine… although I don't know what hurts me the most; the wound or the fact that one of my best men has been ignoring me for days. Should I worry?"

"I've been busy, Gregory."

"Yes, I've heard from _others_ , you went out looking for medicine."

"That's right."

Gregory sighed deeply, "look, I wont pretend that I'm not worried about the situation we're in, Jesus. The fact that Negan has found them and knows that we have a relationship with their community can bring Hilltop some problems. Especially if he learns we are giving shelter to two of them. "

"Do you think he doesn't know that already? Negan doesn't care about that. He could have attacked Hilltop on many occasions, but he hasn't, despite knowing that we can't fight back. He's not interested in that, what he wants is to keep us at his mercy, lackeys to do the dirty work."

"Nonetheless I'm afraid that sooner or later, he will present himself here to re-negotiate the deal we have. It would make sense after what's happened, and you know they want me dead."

"They already think you're dead."

"Do you think they believed that? And even if they did, there're many people, both in here and in the other community who know that's not true. Someone could get carried away and say something out of fear… I just want to make sure you're on my side, Jesus. "

"I'm with this community, I care about these people and will do anything to protect them."

Gregory smiled, "and that's why I'm so glad you're my right hand man."

"I'm not anyone's right hand. I want the best for Hilltop. I just work hard for it."

"Of course, yeah, we all do…" Gregory then gestured with his head pointing toward Maggie and Daryl, who were walking together. "We don't bury our dead; it's one of our rules, and yet we've broken it for her… an outsider."

Paul watched the couple, they walked slowly, Maggie clung to Daryl's arm, as they headed toward the place where they had decided to bury Glenn's body.

Gregory was right; the community had decided that the best way to deal with the death was cremating the corpses. First, for health reasons. And secondly, because many of the residents didn't want to have to deal with that reminder every day. However, in the state Maggie had arrived they thought it would be easier for her to have a place to say goodbye to her husband once she felt better.

"I'll go lend a hand in the vegetable gardens," Paul said ignoring Gregory's words. "I'm glad to see you're better. Have a nice day."

By midafternoon Paul was planting some onions when Alex came over to talk to him.

"Is there anything you can't do?" the nurse said with a smile.

"Many things, actually. But I'm a good learner."

Paul stopped what he was doing to join him. Alex's face quickly changed his jovial expression to show concern.

"How do you feel?"

"I'm fine."

"It's not true Paul, I've been watching you. You've spent all day here and there, trying to occupy your mind, and then you didn't show up at the trapdoor. The children waited for you."

"Really? Oh, I'm sorry. I had no idea you were going to make some kind of ceremony out of it. Nobody has told me anything."

"It wasn't a ceremony, but the kids were excited to show you the wreath. Anyway, it's ok, just hope you go and see it before the flowers fade, that's all."

The sun was setting when Paul finally went to the trapdoor. The shadow of the walls stretched like a black giant, leaving the area under a languid gloom; the scout was grateful for the intimacy it offered.

He knelt and took a look the wreath of flowers with Abbie's name, and smiled imagining the kids making it.

"Who was she?"

Paul turned around to find Daryl standing just there.

"Someone who went too early" Paul said "You know what? After yesterday's talk, I've been thinking about how easy it is for us to give advice but, ironically, we're not very good at listening to our own," he sighed. "She was so young… It was a hard time for me, but I ended up accepting she was gone. I had to. But yesterday I realized that there was still a part of me refusing to let her go," Paul looked down at the book of fables he was holding. "I think it's time to do so"

Paul leaned forward and placed the book beside the wreath of flowers.

"Can I ask what happened?"

"Yes, of course you can," he said standing up, joining him, "but the answer will have to wait."

The two men went silent.

"I didn't tell you," Paul said after a while "but in the house where we stayed the other day, apart from the wine I found a few cans of beer, fancy some?"

Daryl's lips formed a half smile. "Sure."

* * *

He barely noticed how quickly night had fallen. September was just around the corner, and it was noticeable that the days started to get shorter. It was either that, or he was drinking more than necessary and he had begun to lose track of time.

Daryl leaned back on the chair with the fourth beer of the evening resting on his lap. Whatever the case, he didn't care what time it was, because he had to admit that it'd been a long while since he had felt the tranquility he was feeling in that moment. Maybe it was because of the viewpoint's altitude, the protection provided by its small size, or maybe it really was the alcohol going to his head.

He put the bottle to his lips and took a long pull while contemplating the darkness expanding in front of him. Large columns of clouds started to rise over the sky as the sun had begun its farewell in a brilliant amber light, so this was a dark night, only illuminated by the lightning bolts appearing intermittently on the horizon.

Then he heard the gateway to the stairs, and immediately after Jesus appeared like a rabbit out of a hat.

"Here!" He said, showing off the bread and cheese in his hands. "Best if we fill our stomachs before we end up completely drunk"

"That won't happen" Daryl said, "There are only two bottles left."

Jesus faked a disgruntled grimace, then he sat down in the chair next to the archer, and cut a piece of bread and another one of cheese, and handed them to Daryl.

"This is funny" the scout said "I never really liked cheese before and look at me now. There is nothing like an apocalypse to stop us being a bunch of capricious foodies, right?"

Daryl nodded, although, he never had a comfortable life, so he was never too demanding. He had always accepted what life gave to him, whatever it was. Anything that wasn't followed by the lash of a belt was more than welcome for him.

"What did you do before all this?" Daryl asked hoarsely.

Jesus shrugged, "I traveled from one place to another."

"Work?"

"Something like that… What about you?"

Daryl imitated Jesus's shrug, "also went from here to there"

"Work?"

"Survival" He replied gravely.

As if he had taken it as a warning, Jesus didn't ask any more questions. He leaned forward, picked up the two remaining bottles and offered one to Daryl.

"This afternoon, I noticed the bruise on your arm," Daryl said with some reserve.

Paul touched with his fingers the dark crescent-shaped mark, in his forearm.

"Yeah, those bastards bite hard. Honestly, I was really scared, for a second I thought I wasn't going to leave that place. But here we are, drinking beer," he said softening the tone and making light of the subject.

They drank in silence for a while, admiring the show of the lights forming in the depths of the clouds invisible to their eyes.

Out of the corner of his eye, a yellow light caught Daryl's attention. It came from Alex's trailer. He had come out to the door and was speaking to a man who seemed to have brought him something. The archer watched them for a while with curiosity. It was not like he was an expert in the field, but you didn't have to be a whiz to tell by the stranger's body language, that he wasn't there just to deliver a message.

"Who's that guy?" He asked Jesus, who ignored what was happening out there.

Jesus shifted in his chair and looked over the archer's shoulder. He didn't seem too interested on what he saw because he returned to its initial position quickly.

"It's Wes," he said, "late thirties. Married with children. He lost them when all this started. He's been here since the beginning, and apparently he's been fanning his peacock tail for a while trying to get into Alex's pants."

Daryl turned to look at him with a frown.

"How can you say it like that? You don't care?"

"It's Alex's decision, he's free to do whatever he wants."

"Thought you two were–"

"Friends?"

"More than friends…"

"Well, I'm more friends with Alex than Wes, that's for sure. In fact, I never really liked Wes, but that's between you and me."

Daryl looked at Jesus, not knowing how to take his words as he drank his beer blithely. Perhaps he had misunderstood their interactions. But no, he was sure there was more between them. Perhaps, he was not that sure about Jesus, because despite his chatty nature, the man was an enigma to him. But that was not Alex's case, although he hadn't really confessed anything intimate to him, Daryl could tell by the way the nurse talked about Jesus, that for him, the chatterbox, was certainly much more than just a friend.

The archer shook his head trying to shake those thoughts out of his mind. He didn't care about what was going on between them; it was their problem, and he had more important things to worry about.

He looked back out the window; Alex and the other man were still talking. It looked like the nurse had tried to dismiss him kindly a couple of times, but the stranger was prolonging the conversation intentionally.

"You say that Wes guy was married, had a wife and children… Why would he be interested in Alex?"

Jesus looked at him curiously.

"I don't know, maybe he sees something in Alex he has liked, it wouldn't surprise me, Alex is a great man. Or maybe he's one of those people who are attracted to the person and not their gender, or maybe he's a gay guy who lived repressed and forced himself to lead the life dictated to him by a retrograde society. A society that has thankfully died, and perhaps he feels free now to show who he is. Or he's just a jerk who wants to try new things. The hell I know. All of them are feasible, but I'd place my bet on repressed gay."

"You've always been like this?"

Daryl didn't know what had led him to ask such an incredibly stupid question. He wished it had only remained in his imagination, and that he hadn't spoken the words out loud, but by Jesus's reaction, who choked on his beer, he knew that was not the case.

"Are you serious?" the scout asked, as he cleaned the beer he had spilled.

"No, it's not– forget it… I didn't expect– fuck"

Jesus turned to stare at him, and Daryl cursed himself for blurting out more nonsense. What was wrong with him? Where had that prejudiced crap come from? That question had an easy answer: Merle. But he set the thought aside, taking the beer into his mouth with the hope that the liquid kept his tongue occupied.

"So you're one of those…"

Daryl looked at Jesus confused, "What?"

"Someone who stereotypes homosexuals?"

"No," Daryl snapped with a gruff voice.

Jesus stirred in his chair, as if he didn't want to continue listening to whatever he had to say, and Daryl's outrage escalated.

"Listen, I'm friends with Aaron, Eric… Denise, Ta–"

"Yeah, yeah… it's the same excuse used by xenophobes: come on! What are you talking about? I'm not a racist; I have tons of black friends."

"Don't you fucking dare…" Daryl meant to say many things but the words didn't seem to form consistently in his head, "fuck you!"

Daryl rose up irritably.

"Hey! Relax, man, it's okay. I'm just messing with you."

Daryl grunted like an animal and sat down again.

"You're an asshole, fuckin'… idiot."

"You can insult me all you want, I've never been particularly concerned about what people thought of me. And to answer to your question, assuming that what you meant was if I've always been honest about who I am, the answer is: yes."

Daryl looked away, he didn't want to keep listening to what damned chatterbox had to say, but Jesus continued:

"I was lucky to grow up in an open and liberal family, they taught me to love and accept who I was. But unfortunately society was not as ready for it as I was, and that brought some problems. And the truth is that I didn't understand why the other kids treated me the way they did, I didn't understand what I was doing wrong for them to be so cruel. At first it hurt, and I felt alone, but I never stopped being myself. Fuck them, you know?" he paused to give a sip to his beer, "I didn't care if they didn't accept me, I was sure that the problem was theirs, not mine."

The archer listened to Jesus's brief story, without ignoring the fact that it was the first time he shared something truly personal. But besides that, he realized that he identified with the story. It was true that he hadn't grown up in a liberal family, rather the opposite, but he had felt society's rejection. The oddball… the redneck. His home hadn't made things easier either, an unhealthy environment laden with alcohol and violence, as those people molded him into someone he didn't want to be, but whom he had been forced to accept. Alone and apart from the world, he had no one other than his brother to lean on, but even he hadn't offered the love or security he needed. So he had locked himself in an internal cave, from which he felt he was just starting to emerge, but he still needed the confidence he knew he didn't have. He envied Jesus, for being able to stand up against a world reluctant to open its arms to him, but deep down he knew he couldn't have done the same.

He looked at the scout, his relaxed face lit by the lightning bolts, as he took the last sips of his beer.

"My family was a bunch of morons. My mother was an alcoholic addicted to snuff. She smoked so much that she set fire to our house. She died that day."

Daryl noticed that Jesus moved in his chair and fixed his eyes on him, but the archer didn't turn to look at the scout, and he kept his eyes straight ahead, on the outside world.

"My father was an abusive mother fucker… You've already seen the scars, there's not much more to say about it. I hated living with that bastard; I avoided him as much as I could. My brother was luckier, because he spent most of his time going from reformatory to reformatory. So I grew up alone, like a wild animal. When my brother was free and could choose his life, I followed him everywhere. He was my older brother, ya know? He protected me… in his own way. But he was a racist, homophobic misogynist… and for me he was the only role model and the only form of love I've ever known in my life. There was no one else who cared about my miserable existence." Daryl put his now empty bottle on the floor, "And that's the shit story of my life."

Jesus said nothing for a while and that unnerved Daryl, so much he even regretted having opened up so freely, sharing something that very few really knew about him. And who was this man, anyway? He was a stranger who was probably forming the wrong picture of him in his mind. Perhaps Merle tried to mold him to be just like him, and perhaps it was true that he had followed his brother's shadow on numerous occasions. But none of that had seeped through him, and he realized that now, more than ever. That young lost sheep was not Daryl Dixon. He was a different person, a person who was just beginning to unfold.

"You're right," Jesus said calmly, "it's a shit story" then he gently laid a hand over the archer's wounded shoulder, "but you're free now, Daryl. Don't forget that."

Daryl lowered his gaze. Yes, he was free, and as that damned chatterbox had already told him, in this very place, he also had a new family that loved him and didn't judge him for what he had been, nor for who he was now. But, who was the person watching him from the other side of the mirror, anyway? He needed to find that out.

Jesus got up and picked up some empty bottles.

"Leave those," Daryl said pointing to his pile "I'll take 'em."

The scout then walked down the stairs, holding on to the railing for balance.

"Fuck, I haven't been this drunk in a while," he laughed, then turned to Daryl as if he suddenly remembered something. "You know what? Abbie would have liked you, she was a good judge of character… and you're a good man, Daryl. Good night."

When he was finally alone, he noticed something strange in his stomach, and he knew it had to do with the man who just went down the stairs stumbling. There was an innate confidence radiating from him and Daryl not only envied it, he also recognized that it rubbed off on him. He felt safe when he was with him, to the point of confessing the secrets he struggled to leave behind.

Then he remembered Jesus kneeling in front of the wreath of flowers for whoever Abbie was. He remembered his words, and how he confessed that he was also dragging a guilt that he needed to let go. Maybe it was time for him to do the same.


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Jofrench22 thanks for your kind words!  
_

* * *

When Paul opened his eyes the next morning, the intense light coming through the windows surprised him. A quick look at the clock showed that it was already twenty to nine. Paul sighed, and buried his head in the pillow. He couldn't remember the last time he had woken up so late.

After leaving the viewpoint, with the alcohol still bubbling in his veins, he had gone down to the kitchen to get rid of the empty bottles. The house was in absolute silence, and the only sound that could be heard, was the crickets singing, seeping through the open windows. The air brought by the storm had refreshed the rooms pleasantly, and with the roar of thunder filling the air, he had gone to bed. He was used to getting up at dawn, but he assumed that the drinks and the fatigue had settled him into a much-needed rest.

Paul glanced toward the windows, with his face still half buried in the pillow. It looked like the dark clouds had dissipated sometime in the morning, and now it was the sun that kindly invited him to get back on track.

He sat on the bed with a slight moan, and for the first time in months, he thought about Benjamin, and all those times he had kicked him out from under the sheets. He had always been the lazy of the two, the one who asked for a few more minutes. But that only happened when he was at home, and he could behave like an ordinary person. When he was out, things were different; he was forced to switch his brain on autopilot to do his job. He was a machine ready to comply with any order or mission he was entrusted with, and he executed them without asking questions. An autopilot he had activated the moment everything had collapsed, and hadn't turned off since then.

But that night something had changed; the conversation with Daryl awakened something in his head he thought he had buried after losing Ben and his family. His survival instinct started working as soon as he took Abbie in his arms, and he walked on without looking back. Months after, they had arrived at Hilltop and he had met Alex. It was not easy at first, but he knew that Alex was a good man, and they also spent some quality time together. But he wasn't ready for love, there was too much to do, and too much to think and worry about, to waste time on something so primal.

He was an emotionally strong person, he always had been, though he had seen a vulnerability in Daryl that had managed to tear down part the protective wall he had been building over the years, in such a way he even looked back at a past that he had learned to forget.

He rubbed his face and forced himself to his feet. He went to one of the shared bathrooms on that floor, and looked at his face in the mirror, gently touching his cheek. He had forgotten to apply the ointment that Alex had given him, and the bruise had turned a yellowish-black color. But it didn't hurt, so he didn't worry too much about it. He took off his clothes and took a quick shower.

After dressing with some old jeans and a black shirt, he went out and sat on the house's main stairs, with a cup of coffee in his hand. It was stale coffee, and it tasted of nothing, but the hot liquid went through his body, injecting energy into each muscle.

Under the porch's shadow, he watched the colony's activity, and thought about how things could be if there weren't dangers facing them on the other side of the walls. His people didn't seem to worry too much about it, though. They moved around, and worked, and smiled while saying good morning to everyone and offering fresh baked cookies. And they did it without expecting anything in return.

As he sipped his hot coffee, he saw out of the corner of his eye, Earl Sutton's robust body approaching him with great strides.

"Good morning, Paul!" the blacksmith, was one of the first who refused to refer to him by his nickname.

"How are you, Earl?"

"I'm great. The storm has set everything in place for a beautiful day, and I've got something for you," he said, proudly showing him a bundle wrapped in a greasy rag.

"Already?" Paul left the cup aside, took the bundle of cloth and unwrapped it "Wow… Earl, it's really beautiful. I didn't expect it this soon, what and incredible job, man. You've outdone yourself, my friend."

"Any custom work that has nothing to do with spears, gives me extra motivation."

Paul looked enthusiastically at the knife the blacksmith had forged. His double-edged blade was long and pointy. The quillion was wide and curved, as if it was a small sword.

"As you can see it's all one piece, from the tip to the handle butt. Then I added the woodcarving. It's light and manageable."

"You're right, it weighs nothing."

Earl smiled proudly, "I've also carved a small "P" on the handle."

Paul smiled shyly, "thank you… What can I offer you, for such an efficient work like this?"

"Keep watching over us, Paul. I don't ask for anything else. While you're here, this community will continue to grow."

"You're a good man, Earl" Paul got up and put a hand on the blacksmith's shoulder, "but you regard me more than I deserve. I'll bring you something the next time I'll go on a run, I'm guessing all the tools you have are not enough."

The blacksmith let out a slight laugh, "You know me well."

After leaving Earl, Paul returned to his room to stow the knife, and then went to Maggie's room. There, he saw Alex walking out the door.

"Hi!" the nurse said when he saw him.

"Hi," Paul said with a smile "How is she?"

"She is all right, the stitches are healing well, and the baby continues to grow healthy according to the latest test. Today, however, she's suffering some morning sickness."

"Best not to bother her, then."

"You can come later, sure she'll feel better."

They walked together down the hall back to the main stairs of the house.

"How are you?" Alex asked "I was surprised not to see you around earlier. You're usually the early bird."

"Yes, I'm surprised, too, but I slept like a log."

"I'm glad to heard that, you really needed it."

"I guess so…"

"Asking you to also give yourself a break would be a waste of time, I guess, right?"

Paul smiled, "You know there's still much to do, and it wouldn't surprise me if Negan showed up here, sooner or later."

At the mention of Negan, Alex drew a grimace.

"Have you talked to Gregory about it?"

"The truth is I'd rather not. I never agreed with the way he had handled things, you know it, but since we initiated our relationship with Alexandria, his attitude has changed completely. There's something about him, I don't like. I see fear in his eyes, and I worry that he's taking action in some stupid way that'll compromise us all."

"You think he could sell us out to Negan?" He said, lowering his voice, clearly concerned.

"I don't know, Alex. I know he wouldn't want to put Hilltop in danger, but I don't trust what he can do to try to avoid it. And if they discover that he is alive, they will know that we were involved in their outpost attack, and that could bring us serious problems."

"We won't let them sink this community," Alex said, approaching him, and gently stroking his arm.

"No, of course we won't."

"I'm sorry," Alex said.

"Why?"

"Well, I'm afraid this conversation has ruined your good mood…"

"No, no. It was my fault, I brought it up."

They then stopped in front of the stairs.

"How is Wes?" Paul asked, diverting the conversation drastically.

The question caught Alex off guard; he raised his eyebrows and blinked a few times before answering.

"Don't tell me, were you at the viewpoint last night? I thought I saw someone there" suddenly, Alex's cheeks turned pink. "The truth is that he doesn't give up, and he seems a good man, but…" Alex looked up and fixed his blue eyes on Paul's, " I'm not interested, at least, not in him."

The nurse touched his face; aware that his cheeks were even redder as he pronounced those words, and looked down again.

"I guess, I'm also very persistent," he said sheepishly.

"There's nothing wrong with it," Paul said softly. Then he smiled.

"I was thinking about inviting you for dinner tonight. I picked up some great tomatoes, yesterday, and was planning on making some pasta."

"Sounds good, Alex, but…"

"Listen, I don't pretend this to be a date, ok, or some bullshit like that, we've done with that," Alex smiled with some bitterness, "I don't want you to feel forced to do it. But we're friends, right? I just want to spend an evening with a special person, nothing else. Especially before Negan comes here and spoils it all, or you go back on a run without saying anything to anyone, and we spend weeks without knowing if you are ok or not."

Alex was right, it was not the first time he went out without saying anything, and he knew it hurt him.

"Okay… I'll bring the drinks."

Alex's face relaxed, "see you later, then."

"Yeah, see you later."

Then the two men said goodbye affectionately. Paul watched the nurse going down the stairs and leave the house.

"Can I join?" Daryl's voice surprised the scout just as he was about to head back to his room, "pasta with tomato, sounds good, reminds me of… home."

"No. You can't. You know what they say: three's a crowd, and I'm not into that stuff."

"We're talkin' about eatin', it's just a _friendly_ dinner, right?"

Paul walked ignoring the archer's presence, who was following him down the hall.

"You know? It's rude to listen to others conversations."

"So is sneakin' into strangers' rooms."

" _Touché_."

"I went to see Maggie, but she was asleep… anyway, why do you do it?"

"Do what?" Paul asked.

"Play with him."

"Are we really having this conversation?"

"Don't have anythin' better to do."

Paul let out a loud sigh, "As you said, it's just a dinner," the scout stopped in front of his room's door, and turned to face Daryl, "listen, don't think you know what you're talking about, just because we've shared a silly night, telling secrets, influenced by alcohol, ok? I care a lot about Alex, more than you can imagine, and I would never do anything to hurt his feelings. So stop poking your nose into others business, and come inside, I want to show you something."

Paul opened the door and entered, followed by the archer.

"I know the saviors took all your weapons, you know you can't go around unarmed, and that knife you stole from the kitchen, was often used for peeling potatoes, so unless you intend to make a zombie stew, that thing won't be very useful. That's why I asked Earl to work some of his magic."

He walked over to the bed; picked up the knife Earl Sutton had made, and showed it to Daryl. The archer looked the pointed object completely absorbed, and he couldn't help but furrow his forehead showing the confusion he was feeling in that moment. Then he took knife in his hands, and touched carefully the edge of the blade, the steel quillion, and the wooden handle.

"Is it for me?" He asked, completely choked up.

"Yes. I know you guys prefer to measure your strength by the size of your guns, but Earl's work is fantastic. He did mine, light but firm. They glide through the air, almost like an extension of your arm."

Daryl couldn't keep his eyes off the object; he looked at it, fascinated. He then closed the palm of his left hand over the handle and waved it in the air as if he was attacking an invisible being.

"It's incredible…"

"Yeah… Oh! I forgot to say, it has a small "P" etched into the wood, I didn't specify anything to him, so he thought it was for me."

Daryl looked up for a second, and then turned the knife looking for the carved letter. Paul smiled at the archer's reaction, imagining he was not used to receiving such gifts.

"I'm glad you like it…"

"Huh… Ah! Yeah, yeah, thanks…"

Paul left Daryl, still entranced watching his new toy, and opened the closet. From there, he pulled out a leather sheath and threw it over the bed.

"Take it, it will go well with the knife, and I don't need it."

As he left the archer placing the sheath on his belt, Paul went to take a look out the windows, and something caught his attention, there. In the distance, a cloud of dust rose over the horizon. He felt a pinch in the stomach. Then he moved quickly around the room, looking for the binoculars.

"What's up?" Daryl asked approaching him.

"It's a car, and it's coming this way."

* * *

"Have you seen it?" Paul asked as he reached the watch point.

After passing the binoculars to Daryl, for him to take a look at the vehicle approaching the colony at high speed, Paul shout out of the room, and went down the stairs so fast that he could barely feel the carpet under his boots.

The archer had followed him and stopped beside the main doors, waiting for some kind of news. Paul and Kal, meanwhile, watched the dust cloud get bigger and bigger, as the car came closer. They could distinguish it clearly, now; it was a dark-green Chevrolet.

"You recognize it?" Kal asked.

Paul took back the binoculars, recognizing the figures sat in the front seats.

"They're from Alexandria. Open the gates!"

Kal snorted with relief by his side, "well, that's good news."

"No, is not" Paul replied, firmly, "they shouldn't be here this soon."

Paul left the platform, and joined Daryl at the gates, to await the entrance of the car. The vehicle crossed between the corrugated-metal sheets fast as a missile, and stopped short sinking the front wheels in the mud.

The first person to get off the car was Tara, who climbed out of one of the rear seats, and walked with firm and eager steps, to where they were standing. Her expression was full of anger and sadness. They didn't have a second to ask what was wrong, or even welcome her. The moment she approached them, Tara delivered a blow against Daryl's jaw and he fell to the ground with no time to react. Paul and Eduardo jumped on the young girl to stop her, while she squirmed in their arms trying to get rid of them.

"Why!? Why did you let her go out!?" she shouted, "leave me alone!"

"Tara, that's enough!" Rosita said quickly running out of the car.

"No! You were supposed to take care of her!"

Paul pulled away, leaving Rosita to be the one to reassure the other woman. Then he looked around, beside the vehicle were Eugene and a young girl, he was sure he had seem her in Alexandria, but he didn't remember her name. Then there was the large group of onlookers who had come by, alarmed by the sudden uproar. The scout shook his head, and turned to take a look at Daryl. The archer was still on the ground half seated. He approached him and held him a hand, but the archer rejected the help, pushing his hand away with a slap. Then he tried to get up alone, gritting his teeth, and trying to hide the pain the fall had caused in his wounded shoulder. Although Paul was sure there was a much deeper pain punishing him, in that moment.

Eugene approached the archer and helped him to his feet, "glad to see you're better," he said, with his usual monotone voice.

Daryl mumbled something unintelligible as he composed himself.

"Why are you here?"

Eugene turned to look at his travel companions, who were still stuck by the car. Rosita was clinging to Tara who had replaced her anger with a disconsolate crying.

"We wanted to check if everything was ok here. Enid wants to stay with Maggie…" Rosita said, leaving that last sentence in the air, as if it was just an entry for what she really meant to say.

The group went silent, as if they were not sure of what to do next. Eugene looked at Rosita and made a gesture with his head.

"Speak. Now." Daryl demanded.

"We bring some news," she said, "but I think we'd better talk in a quieter and private place."

"No," Daryl snapped, "say it already."

Rosita took a deep breath, it was clear that she didn't want to talk about it there, in front of all those strangers, but she did anyway:

"Negan paid us a visit, yesterday. Things didn't turn out well."

"What happened?" Paul asked.

"Rick tried to play along, accepting their demands. But there were people who decided to stand up, and things just got… complicated…"

"They killed people," Tara said shakily.

Paul noted that Daryl stiffen.

"Some of his men opened fire, to warn us. Olivia, Tobin and Eric…" Rosita swallowed, unable to continue.

Daryl clenched his jaw and fists. His eyes were lost somewhere far from his mind. His chest rose and fell quickly, showing his hectic mood. He didn't need to say anything, it was obvious that he not only felt the loss of his friends, but he probably felt part responsible for what had happened.

"Should've been there," he said in a grave voice.

"There was nothing we could do," Rosita said.

Daryl shook his head, "I should've been there," he repeated, raising his voice, "I shouldn't have stayed here. I should've gone with them."

"Daryl–" Paul began to say.

"No!" the archer spat in his face, not letting him continue, "don't want to hear any of your shit! I don't want to hear it!"

All of them watched the archer, while he moved around nervously, hatching something in his head.

"I need a car, I have to go," he said.

"The plan is to return in a few days–" said Eugene.

"No. Don't have a few days. I've to go now. I need a car," he insisted, punctuating each word, as he turned to look at Paul firmly.

"You can't drive," the scout replied calmly.

"I wont repeat it again," he said, approaching him in a threatening manner "if you don't give me a fuckin' car. I'll steal it myself, don't give a shit."

A murmur could be heard from the crowd around them. The tense atmosphere had soared uncontrollably. Paul looked around at all those people who were watching the scene, clearly concerned by what was happening, and nervous about how things could turn out. He saw Alex, who had taken a step forward, away from the group, as if he was ready to intervene if necessary. Then he fixed his eyes over the Alexandrians, who were too affected by what had happened in their community, to try to control the riotous feelings of his friend. And finally he stared back at Daryl, still with his eyes full of anger and hatred, nailed at him.

"I'll take you," he said then.

Daryl pursed his lips, "how many times I have to repeat, don't need you to fuckin' babysit me."

Paul blew out, jaded, "I'm offering you a car and a driver," he replied firmly, "so if you really want to get out of here, go get your stuff, now."

As if he didn't need any other warning, Daryl left the group and headed back to Barrington House. Paul followed him with his eyes, and saw that Maggie was on the main terrace, watching the whole thing. The scout sighed again, and walked toward the newcomers, who looked like they were waiting for some indication of what to do.

"You must be tired, I'll ask someone to give you something to eat. Meanwhile, you can park the car, then Crystal," he said pointing to one of the women who were among the crowd, "will show you where you can stay."

"Thanks…" Rosita said.

Paul tried to smile but it was almost impossible for him.

"Ok, listen," he said addressing the audience around them, "everything is fine, don't worry about what happened, you can return to your duties, now."

No more words were needed; everyone started to move, spreading in every direction. All but one solitary figure, who was standing there motionless. Paul laid his eyes on Alex. The enthusiasm he had shown just a few minutes before had disappeared completely. His face looked off and sad. Then he turned around and disappeared with the others.

Neither the sleep, nor the morning coffee seemed to have an effect on his body anymore. He felt a sudden tiredness over his shoulders, like a concrete block. Nothing seemed to go right, and worst of it all was that in the end, he wasn't even surprised about what was happening.

"You're ok?"

Paul turned surprised to hear Kal's voice, who hadn't moved from were he was standing.

"Yeah," he said giving him an off smile, "don't worry."

Kal didn't looked convinced by his words, but he accepted his answer and returned to his position over the platform.

* * *

Paul slammed the steel door gently, and the answer from the other side, didn't wait. He got inside, a bit afraid, and closed the door carefully. Alex sat in the tiny kitchen table, where the two of them had shared meals and long conversations, on many occasions. Now, there were a few stacked books and papers scattered across its surface.

"Hi," the nurse said, as if they hadn't seen each other just a few minutes ago, "I was… I was about to study a little."

"Alex, I'm sorry."

Alex shook his head, rubbed his hands over his face, murmured something, and put them back on the table. Then he got up to get a glass of water.

"It's okay, Paul, it's okay…" he said ruefully, without turning to look at him, "I won't deny that I feel disappointed, but, what can I do? I can't blame you. You do what you think you have to do. You've always done."

Paul approached him gingerly, and laid a hand on his back.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, lowering his voice.

Because it was not just about the dinner, it was about everything else. He felt unable to give Alex what he craved, and he certainly deserved. He felt bad for not being able to offer Alex the same love he professed him. He felt sorry about not being the right person for him, and not being at the height of what he expected.

Alex turned to look at him; his eyes reflected the light coming through the tiny windows, like two pieces of glass.

"I just want the best for you," Paul continued.

The nurse laughed bitterly, "if we were together this definitely would sound like you were breaking up with me: you deserve something better, it's not you, it's me, we can be friends…"

"We've never stopped being friends."

"That's true, we've always been _friends_."

Paul nodded slightly, "I don't want you to waste your time, Alex, to see you stay here awaiting for something that I'm not sure I can give you. I'm not even convinced that I'm prepared for it."

"You are, but I'm not _that_ person," Paul opened his mouth to refute his words, but Alex cut him off, "it doesn't matter, I have no choice but accept it, right?" he said trying to make it sound like a throwaway remark, but his smile faded quickly, "I'm tired… I think I'm going to lie down for a bit. "

There was no doubt that he was asking Paul to leave him alone in a polite way. The scout stroked his cheek and walked toward the door.

"Paul…" the nurse called before he left, "be careful, please. Dinner is still on; so make sure you come back in one piece. I'm only asking for that."

When Paul went into his room he felt an intense unease grip his chest like a viral infection. He thought his brain couldn't retain and understand everything that was going on. It was too much to take all at once. Daryl, Alexandria, Negan, the Saviors, the deal they had with them, Maggie, Hilltop, Gregory, Alex… he needed a break, he needed to sit down and analyze the situation carefully. He thought about lying in bed and staying there until the exhaustion overcame him completely, hoping that when he got up again, everything was back to normal. But he couldn't, there was no time, they had to go.

At any other time, the mere thought of leaving Hilltop's walls behind, would have encouraged him. He liked the tranquility afforded by the colony, but he also enjoyed the freedom he felt when he was out on runs, exploring the world, and the moments alone it offered. He was not afraid of loneliness, but as Andy had said, in the end, everyone wanted to have someone to rely on.

He thought about Daryl's words about Alex. Had he really been playing with him? He hoped he wouldn't have caused that impression in the nurse, because he certainly didn't deserve anyone treating him like that. He wanted to go back to his trailer and clarify the whole situation, make it clear that he really cared about him; he loved him, though not in the same way Alex did. But he knew it was not the right time, and it was better for him to leave him alone as he had asked. So he sat at his desk, picked up pen and paper, and wrote a sincere letter, every word scribbled on the blank sheet, carrying meaning.

He was so focused on what he was writing, that the knocks he heard on the door seemed too distant for him to care. However, whoever it was, didn't show the patience to wait for an invitation, and when Paul looked up, he saw Gregory standing in the middle of the room.

"I'll be frank here," he said directly, "I don't like what's going on."

Paul signed the letter, and then folded the paper into two, letting Gregory explain himself, even if what he had to say wasn't something he needed, or wanted, to hear in that moment.

"If Negan showed up there, it won't take him long to come over here, and I'm terrified of that meeting. We've always obeyed and they have fulfilled their promise to not to attack us, and kept the surroundings clean of death. But _they_ have provoked them, Jesus, and it will affect us, because we're sheltering them. They will bring us problems, many problems."

Paul got up and walked past Gregory, barely looking at him.

"You not going to say anything? What's wrong with you, Jesus? Have you forgotten your place? You're a member of this community, but now you seem much more concerned about them than us. You're risking everything to help them, even Hilltop's welfare. Since they appeared here, everything has fallen apart, it's pretty obvious. Our security hangs by a thread, and it looks like you don't give a shit about it."

"That's not true, and you know it," he said calmly, as he began to prepare his backpack for the trip.

"You don't show it. People have started to mutter things; do you think it doesn't reach my ears? They are aware of what's going on, Jesus. This community was perfectly fine, we enjoyed security, and now there's just uncertainty about what may happen if Negan, and his men, come here to re-negotiate our deal. And what do you do in the meantime? Go off, leaving us alone, to ourselves. If we are in this situation it's because of them, and I'm obliged to remind you, that it was _you_ who opened Hilltop's doors to them, don't forget that."

Paul closed the backpack and approached the other man with a stoic expression. Gregory stepped back almost immediately.

"Maybe these tricks work for you with others, but don't try to play with me, Gregory. The only thing that worries you about Negan crossing the gates, it's your own neck, because you know that if he finds out you're still alive, he won't hesitate to kill you himself. And that hatred has nothing to do with Alexandria. So don't mix the interests of this community with your own. If you went out of your office more often, you would understand what your damn deal with Negan has really brought to us. But getting your hands dirty is not your thing, right?"

Gregory took a deep breath, "I didn't come here to fight with you. I think highly of you, Jesus, and all I want is for you to not forget that this community needs you, too."

"I know that, Gregory, that's why I have to go, so if you don't mind I would like to finish here."

Gregory shook his head, and left the room. The moment the door closed, Paul sat on the bed and covered his face with his hands. He felt dejected. Gregory's words affected him more than he had shown, because, undoubtedly, it was something he had been thinking a lot in the past few days. He had attracted Alexandria's attention there, and since then, things just keep getting worse and worse.

It could be said that Negan would have met with Rick's community, sooner or later, and it was true, but no one could predict how events would have unfolded if he hadn't crossed paths with them in the first place. Inevitably, he felt his meeting with Rick and Daryl had precipitated the events, and he couldn't help but feel guilty about it. That's why he had to go, because there was only one way to change things, and bring back calm and hope to both, Hilltop and Alexandria.

He huffed in frustration when he heard knocks on the door again.

"Who is it?" He asked tired.

The door opened, and Daryl came in, straight as an arrow.

"You ready?"

Outside, next to the car, Eugene and Rosita were waiting. Maggie was with them. Her pale face was a sign that she had already heard the bad news.

Paul left them some space to say good-bye to Daryl while he put the things inside the car. Around them, people from the Hilltop were busy with their tasks, watching from the distance. Why did he suddenly feel so alone? He would have liked it if at least Alex had joined them, and he couldn't help but curse himself for even thinking about it. He knew, deep down, that it was an extremely selfish thought on his part.

Then he felt a warm hand on his back. He turned and saw Maggie, her eyes reflected anger, sadness and tiredness, and yet she gave him a weak smile.

"I'm so sorry" Paul said, ruefully.

"You don't have to be. You've done a lot for us, and you keep doing it. We are in this together, and you're part of our family now, Paul. Be careful, ok?" Maggie stepped forward and offered him a sincere hug, "Take care of him, please. Don't let Daryl do anything stupid," She whispered into his ear.

"Difficult job, but I'll try," He said jokingly when they separated.

"Don't worry about Hilltop," Maggie added, "no one will cross these walls while we are here."


	10. Chapter 10

Daryl's heart was pounding so hard that the anxiety had managed to turn his stomach. They'd been driving for two hours, and during that time he had lost count of the times he had to rub his eyes, intermittently trying to erase the images of horror projected in his mind. He imagined the fear, the uncertainty and the panic, that had probably tormented his people. The same fear they had felt a little over a week ago. But above all, he thought about the pain, a pain that never seemed to let up, and did nothing but increase with each passing minute. The nerves were driving him crazy, they still had a few hours of travel ahead, and the pinch he felt in his chest, every time he thought about the moment they'd cross Alexandria's gates, cut his breath short. He bit his lip, he restlessly scratched his head, and shifted in his seat without ever finding a relaxing position. Nothing he did seemed to calm him down. He took a look at the person sitting in the driver's seat. Jesus had remained silent since they had left Hilltop, his steel eyes riveted on the road, barely blinking.

"We're fucked," Daryl said, suddenly, "We're completely fucked."

Jesus clenched his jaw, however, and to Daryl's surprise, the scout said nothing. The archer snorted reluctantly. At the very least he had expected the chatterbox to loose his tongue, and say something encouraging as usual. But no, his lips remained sealed tight like a clam.

"You could say something," the archer growled.

"What do you want me to say?"

Daryl thought about it for a few seconds. Perhaps he was right, and it was better for him to not assert himself; at the end of the day, what could he say? Any impassioned speech would mean nothing to him. It didn't matter; whatever he said, it would be just empty words that wouldn't help him to fill the hole that had opened in his consciousness.

"You're a jerk," he said without even thinking about it.

Jesus sighed, tired, "Why don't you try to get some sleep?"

"All this…" Daryl continued, not listening to him, "you knew of their existence all this time. You saw what they are capable of. Your people have been suffering the consequences of their actions, first hand. And yet, you, who prowls the countryside like a fox, never occurred to you to go out and find them? To follow them? Find out where they hide?" Daryl shook his head from side to side, exasperated, "fuckin' idiot."

Jesus snorted again, "You can insult me all you want…"

"Yes, you're a fuckin' idiot."

"I tried once, okay?" Jesus said, raising his voice just enough, "and they almost caught me. So I shook that notion from my head. As simple as that; it wasn't worth it."

Daryl let out a laugh full of sarcasm, "Wasn't worth it…"

"No, of course it wasn't; I know the concept might be too much for you, but I serve Hilltop better being alive than dead."

The archer glanced at the man driving, then stared back out his window. He had seen, with his own eyes, the kind of people who lived in Hilltop. In the end, they didn't differ much from the people from Alexandria. Normal people, simply trying to adapt to turbulent and changing times. People who had taken refuge behind high walls, building a normal life, in a world that wasn't. People who were not prepared to shed blood of the living, let alone that of the dead. Jesus was the strongest link in their community, as well as his family was to Alexandria, and he knew that without his presence, their future was probably more than condemned to a gruesome fate.

So, it could be said that, deep down, Daryl understood the decision Jesus had taken. He had put his people ahead of his own desires and cravings. Because it was evident, although he didn't say it openly, that the chatterbox wanted to finish off Negan, as much as he did.

"Did you have the saviors in mind when you tried to convince us to go to Hilltop?" the archer asked.

"Yes."

For a moment, Daryl was surprised at his sincerity. For some reason he had expected one of those ornate and vague answers, full of words that made him lose interest too easily, and not a monosyllabic reply he wasn't used to.

"Anyway," he said, "what interested me the most was your arsenal, and the apparent lack of provisions you had, and all that it might mean for a future agreement between the two communities. The rest of events escalated on their own. I didn't expect Ethan to try to kill Gregory, and as a result him ending with his throat cut. I didn't expect you to show interest in the saviors, much less see you offering to kill them yourselves. Everything just got out of hand."

Daryl could hear distinguishable notes of resentment and guilt, in Jesus' voice, and the archer could understand why. It was as he said; things had escalated beyond their control.

"Didn't mean to call you an idiot," Daryl said, hoarsely, "or a jerk… or an asshole…"

Jesus made a slight nod, and the conversation died in that moment. The two turned their attention to the road before them.

He wasn't sure why, but Daryl felt the short talk had helped to calm his nerves, even if it only served to replace his anxiety for impotent rage. He felt like they were bound hand and foot, and that all they could do was remain standing and watching, while that fucking sadistic took away all they had and loved. They had to fight, they needed to stand up and face them. And even if he didn't say it out loud, he knew that Jesus thought exactly the same. Daryl could tell that by the way he spoke, measuring his speech, as if he needed to convince himself that they had to wait, and be cautious, and study the situation carefully. In the end, the moment would come. But Daryl wasn't sure he had the patience for it, because every time he tried, whenever he said to himself that they needed to wait, he saw Glenn's maimed face, and now he also had to count the deaths of Eric, Olivia and Tobin.

"Shit…"

Jesus sudden murmur brought his thoughts back to the car. Daryl looked at him, curiously, as he had leaned slightly forward. The archer followed his gaze and then he straightened in his seat alarmed. There was a car on the road, coming from the opposite direction. There was still some distance, but there was no doubt it had to be them.

"Oh, fuck, fuck…"

"We can cross through the field," Daryl suggested.

"No, surely they've already seen us, and that can only make things worse."

Jesus began to slow down gradually, and meanwhile he took off the knives sheaths from his belts, and hid them under his seat, without taking his eyes off the road.

"In the glove compartment, there's a knife, give it to me."

Daryl looked at the scout frowning, not understanding what he was doing, but he did as he asked. He opened the glove compartment and saw, as he had said, a sheath with a knife inside. Daryl gave it to him, and Jesus placed it in one of his belts. Daryl watched the car approaching them; it was a black convertible 4x4. He couldn't count them exactly from there, but he thought there were at least seven men in the car. When they were about thirty meters away, the 4x4 made a sharp turn and stopped in the middle of the road blocking their way. Daryl and Jesus observed the vehicle in silence, from where they sat, assault weapons trained on them.

"Out of the car!" A tall, thin man shouted, exiting the passenger's seat.

"I'll go out, you stay here," Jesus said softly.

"No fuckin' way."

"Daryl–"

"You're not going out alone."

"Daryl, just for once, trust me and don't leave the car."

Jesus gave him no option to reply, because immediately afterwards he opened the door and raised his hands in the air. This was a gesture of defeat and vulnerability that had nothing to do with that one he had showed in his meeting with him and Rick, and it nauseated him.

Daryl didn't want to stay in the car like a coward, while Jesus faced the situation for both of them. But the saviors' attention was fully placed on the scout, so he lay still in his seat, trying to think of some way to intervene without complicating things further.

"Well, well… you're from Hilltop, right? He's this guy they called Jesus, right?" He said, snapping his fingers as he addressed his men. Then he turned his attention back to scout. "Yes, the resemblance is there, that's for sure. My name is Harold, but my friends call me _Vulture_ … I hope it's not just because I look like one."

The group laughed loudly. Meanwhile, Jesus was standing there in front of them, with his hands up. Daryl clenched his fists in his seat. He wanted to get out there and fly these guys through the air, as he had done with the first group they had met on the road.

Jesus then moved slightly, it looked like he was about to say something, probably to sell himself as a man who wasn't looking for trouble, as he had made with them the first time they met. But Daryl realized that one of the men had his eyes on him, as if until that moment, they haven't noticed his presence.

"There's someone else in the car," he said aloud, pointing the gun in his direction.

The rest did the same, gunpoint their assault rifles directly at him.

"He's hurt," Jesus said, quickly, "I'm taking him home."

Vulture took a couple of steps forward, approaching the scout with a threatening attitude. Daryl felt his heart quicken.

"He has to get out of car," he said gravely, and then he turned to glace the archer "with your hands up, now!"

"He can't–"

"I haven't told you to fucking speak! Have I told you to speak?" the man spat in his face, placing a hand over the gun he kept holstered.

Daryl opened the door without thinking twice, and raised his hands as best he could. Vulture then stepped back as he watched him get closer. His brow furrowed with deep lines while he examined him, and then his eyebrows rose in acknowledgement.

"Wait a second… isn't this the guy Dwight shot?" There was a murmur among the men, "Yes, it's you, ha! Well, well, I'm glad to see you're all right, man. I will pass on the good news to Dwight. He's enjoying your crossbow like a kid on Christmas morning."

Daryl wanted to pounce him and smash his face in; to hit him so hard he wouldn't speak again for what remained of his miserable life. But he stayed motionless, clenching his jaw in an attempt to control himself.

"We don't want problems," Jesus said, calmly, "let us go on our way, and you can continue on yours."

The leader of the group turned his attention from Daryl to the scout, "nobody has asked you to give orders."

"It's not an order, it's a suggestion…" Jesus answered, speaking slowly.

"We can't let you go, not just like this. You know how this goes. You!" he said, pointing at Daryl, "You were present when Negan informed you all about how things work now, right? Half of your shit belongs to us. So be nice and give us your weapons."

"We have no weapons, we come from Hilltop, and you know that we only have what our blacksmith can provide us."

Vulture waved his head. Then he stopped in front of Jesus, looked at him up and down and took another step forward, then reached out a hand, and laid it on the scout's belt, unbuttoning the sheath and taking the knife. He inspected it for a few seconds, making a disappointed face.

"Bah!" he said, reluctantly, "it's not very impressive."

"More than enough to kill the dead, I don't need it for anything else."

The man made a strange sound, as if he was agreeing with him, and then he reached out his arm for one of his men to take the knife. Then he bent slightly and began to search inside the scout's cargo pants pockets, looking for something else. But all he found was the hook that Jesus used to force doors. That object didn't seem to interest him in the slightest, and he threw it to the ground.

Daryl watched the whole scene with astonishment, mostly because of the passivity Jesus was showing. The man didn't move a muscle while that fucker touched him everywhere. Vulture then laid his eyes on the archer.

"Let's see what we have here," he said, approaching him.

The adrenaline shot giddily through Daryl's veins. His chest moved quickly. He was going to hit him, he knew he would, he won't let that bastard to touch him, but he could feel Jesus' eyes nailed on him, and although he didn't turn to look back at him, he knew that if he did, he would find the scout's intense stare, imploring him not to do anything stupid.

While Vulture studied him, one of his men had gone ahead and was walking around the car, taking a look inside through the windows. Daryl turned his attention, one second to him, until he felt Vulture's hand on his belt. The contact was minor, but enough for the archer to turn on abruptly. The group's leader stepped back, and the man examining their 4x4, came over running, aiming his rifle on his head.

"Don't move!"

"Hey! It's ok, calm down!" Jesus said, quickly, "I've said we have nothing."

"Fucking idiot…" Vulture said, "If you move again, you dick, I'll tell my boys to blow your brains out. The two of you, you hear me?"

Then he approached the archer again, and took the knife from its sheath, pushing Daryl aside in the process.

"Wow!" he said then, examining his new trophy, "this is something else, man, fuck! What a beauty."

Daryl had to repeat to himself, again and again, he had to stay calm; that it was better to obey if only for that moment. But seeing that bastard touching the knife that Jesus had given him was awakening a fierce anger inside of him.

"We have nothing else," the scout repeated, "now we would like to continue on our way."

Vulture settled Daryl's knife in his own belt, and walked toward Jesus quizzically.

"What if we take the car? What do you think guys?"

Of course it was a rhetorical question, the man wasn't looking for an answer, in fact he took another step forward and stood just a few feet from where Jesus was standing with a stoic expression.

"Nah… don't worry, we don't want your car," he said almost in a whisper, "but I like your vest. Take it off."

Daryl moved slightly but he stopped as soon as he felt the cold touch of the rifle's barrel in his neck. He thought he saw Jesus made a gesture with his shoulders, it was something almost imperceptible, as if he had straightened himself, but apart from that, he stood there impassively, watching unblinkingly, as the other man was getting closer to him.

Then, much to the archer's amazement, the scout unzipped his vest and took it off. What the hell was going on? He knew that Jesus was more than capable of defending himself, of cutting that fucker down if he wanted, but he remained standing firm, doing nothing, while he let that man humiliate him.

Daryl shook his head from side to side in disbelief, watching that bastard put on the vest, as he showed off in front of all his men.

"How do I look?" he asked, jokingly.

Then he tried to fasten the zipper, but it was too small for him, causing a round of laughter from the rest of the group. Daryl thought he saw Jesus curl the corner of his mouth slightly, but it was such a subtle gesture, he was not sure whether or not he'd imagined it. Then, Vulture turned back to look at them.

"We'll let you go," he said, "and just to show you that we're not as bad as you think, I'll suggest that you turn around and go back to Hilltop." He turned to Daryl, "I don't think you'll like what you're going to find in your community."

Daryl huffed angrily and walked resolutely towards Vulture, but the man who was pointing his rifle at him gave him a strong blow to the back, knocking him to his knees.

"Get up!"

The archer didn't even have time to react to the warning, because immediately afterwards he felt the hands of the man who had hit him, pulling him, forcing him to rise from the ground. The sharp and sudden movement caused such agony in his shoulder that he couldn't hold back the pained moan that tore his throat.

"Stop!"

Daryl could barely see what was going on, but he knew that Jesus had moved from where he was, and had pushed the man with the rifle away from him.

"Stop now!" the scout said, standing in front of Daryl "You are seven against two, I think you've shown off enough..."

"Are you calling us _bullies_?" the leader asked, derisively.

"I'm just saying that you're more in number, and you're armed. It's an unfair fight, and we just want to reach our destination. You've taken what you want, now it's time for you to leave."

Daryl was still amazed by the scout's parsimony, and the way he could loose those lectures even in the most complicated situations. However, that frugality didn't seem to impress the leader of the group of saviors, who came back to him, though his footsteps weren't as strong and confident as they'd been at first. Once in front of him, Vulture took off the vest and threw it into Jesus' face.

"We'll pay you a visit real soon. I really hope you don't plan to entertain too long wherever you're going, because I'd love to have you present to see what we've prepared for your people."

And with those words he returned to the 4x4 with the rest of his men. The car soon started to move, passing in front of them accompanied by the screeching of tires. However, before they finally drove off, one of them aimed his rifle and shot out one of the rear wheels of their car. Then they sped off, leaving them stranded in the middle of nowhere.

"You're ok?" Jesus asked the moment they lost sight of the other vehicle.

Daryl wanted say no, that he was not ok. In fact he wanted to say a lot of things, but his head seemed to be unable to rationalize what had just happened. So when he finally opened his mouth, the answer was not exactly a reflection of what he was really feeling:

"Fuck you."

Jesus rolled his eyes, visibly bored, and unwilling to get into another useless argument with the archer, so he turned his back and opened the car's trunk, and rummaged inside until he pulled out a spare wheel.

Daryl watched the scout move around the car as if nothing had happened, as if that bunch of bastards hadn't forced them to kowtow, while they took what was theirs, and rubbed into their faces, what they had just done in Alexandria and what they intended to do in Hilltop. That calm, that fucking calm again. He wanted to catch him by the front of his shirt, and shake him to get a reaction, to make him show that temper Daryl knew was there, but that he kept on trying to contain like a tiger in a cage.

"What the hell was that about?" Daryl finally said, approaching him.

"What?" the scout replied, distracted.

Daryl kicked the ground and rubbed his face irritated, "Fuck… they make fun of us, disarm us…" the archer let out something similar to a growl, "if they asked you to drop your fuckin' pants, would ya do that too?"

"Don't worry, I'm not that easy."

"I'm serious, you fuckin' asshole!"

"Me too," he replied, sharply, "sometimes things are just like this. I don't like it, ok? But there're times when there's nothing we can do, and the only thing left for us is to give in to their game."

"People have died, and they're still willing to keep doing–"

"You're not telling me anything I don't know already, Daryl," the scout snapped, giving him a much angrier look than his tone had implied.

"What are you doing about it?"

"Arming myself with patience, until the right time comes."

"And when the hell will that be?"

Jesus sighed deeply as he closed his eyes, "I thought our little talks in these past days had made some impression on that character of yours, guess I was wrong."

"Fuck this. I'm not standing idly by while they keep killing our people."

Jesus, who had been crouched beside the wheel of the car the whole time, stood up to face the archer.

"Why don't you explain to me what your big plan is? Because I'm eager to hear it, if you have one."

Daryl clenched his jaw as he looked at the scout's crystal eyes. In them, he saw hunger, the same he had, but that he kept to himself vehemently. Jesus also wanted to act; he also wanted to stop that bunch of parasites. And there was a plan, of course there was one, he could sense it not only by the way the scout begged him with his eyes, to calm the fuck down, but because he knew it was impossible for him to not have thought about something to do. However, he was buying time, for what? He wasn't sure, but he was convinced that Jesus had joined the game fully aware of what he was doing, and he was only waiting for that perfect hand to let him land the final blow. In contrast, Daryl didn't have a plan or a strategy that involved a masterstroke. He only had the impatient desire to avenge the deaths of those who had perished in the most unfair and haphazard ways possible.

The archer filled his lungs with air, and pursed his lips. No, he had no answer to give him, and Jesus noticed that. The scout shook his head, accepting his victory in silence, and then returned to crouch next to the flat tire.

"What are you waiting for?" Daryl asked, hoarsely "What's the plan?"

"Okay… maybe there's something percolating in my head," Jesus replied calmly, "but I need to talk to Rick first."

"You can talk to me."

"Let's not waste any more time with this now, ok? We have to go, so do something productive and pass me the jack."

Daryl approached the trunk, took out the gadget and handed it to him.

While the scout changed the tire, Daryl looked down the road in front of them. He wondered where the saviors were coming form. Not from Alexandria, he assumed, or at least that's what he hoped, because another visit from Negan's men would be too much for his people to handle. Perhaps this was the way to their camp, the place where they were hiding, and that had gone totally unnoticed by all of them. Or they were simply doing a round in search of other communities to extort.

Then Daryl remembered that phrase Jesus had said, sat in Rick's kitchen, and after escaping for the second time. The scout had hinted that Hilltop was already doing business with other communities, and now he was wondering if that was a subtle way of referring to the saviors, or if he was really talking about other groups. Were there more people out there?

The archer pulled out his pack of cigarettes, and took one; glad somehow, that the saviors didn't find it. Then he took a look at the man working by his side. He was hiding something, he was totally sure of that, and perhaps that's why he wanted to talk to Rick, to tell him that there were other groups out there who could be willing to join them in a fight against Negan. Maybe that's the reason he had been so interested in their arsenal, because he knew he had the people, but didn't have the weapons. Daryl chuckled, pleased with himself, because suddenly he was absolutely convinced that it had to be something like that. But the smile faded from the corner of his lips, as he realized that if that were true, the fucking chatterbox was using them. That little fucker and his ill-fated magic tricks.

He looked at him again. His long hair fell sideways exposing his face, soft and gentle features, almost innocent. An attractive facade that was simply a defense mechanism, a way to attract and seduce a predator convinced of its superiority, waiting the right moment for him to act and deliver the coup de grace to grant him the victory.

Suddenly Daryl felt the urge to force him to confess everything. Force him to acknowledge that he was just using them for his own interest. But then he remembered all that he had done and was doing for them. The way he looked at Maggie, with the protective face of an older brother, was not feigned. Even the way he asked him to calm down, or the times he had asked how he was doing, even if he only received a grunt for an answer; he knew all that was real and sincere.

Then the archer put a hand on his belt and the sheath that now was empty. Maybe Hilltop didn't have ammunition, but he was more than sure that their blacksmith provided them with enough weapons to have an extra knife to offer him. And yet Jesus had asked the master craftsman to make one for him, and he had to admit it was the most beautiful knife he had ever seen.

Daryl let out the smoke from his cigarette with rage, "They took my fuckin' knife."

He thought he was speaking to himself, but realized that the words had escaped his mouth loud and clear, by the way Jesus had turned to face him.

"I have no intentions of stopping in the middle of the road again, so don't worry, I don't think you'll need it," the scout said trying to downplay it, "and anyway, you're going back home, you'll have plenty of weapons there."

Daryl nodded slightly, while Jesus finished what he was doing. He was going back home, his _home_ , he should feel happy after getting out of the cage Hilltop was for him, but he knew he was being unfair. There was nothing stimulating in what he was going to find at Alexandria, and Jesus' community had treated them all well, though he had not been as grateful as he should. But there was something else, maybe it was the way the chatterbox had pronounced those words " _you're going back home"_ , he probably was going crazy, but he was sure he heard some regret in them.

Daryl shook his head, that's bullshit, the scout was probably tired, he was as well, but there was something in the pit of his stomach suggesting, that he was also going to miss Hilltop, and the calmness he had felt there, even if it had only been for a short period of time.

Daryl looked at the scout, and for some reason, he imagined him approaching the blacksmith, greeting the man with that cordiality of his, asking him to make a new knife. The archer threw his cigarette to the road and stepped on it reluctantly. He didn't quite understand why he cared so much about it. The chatterbox was right, Alexandria was lucky to have such an arsenal, and he hoped that, with foresight, they would have hidden most of the weapons before Negan's arrival. Still, even if there were enough weapons, he felt a lump in his throat. Shit, he wanted that fucking knife back.

"Well, this is done," Jesus said, rising.

"You sure those screws are tight?"

The scout gave him a sharp look, and then put everything back in the trunk, and both sat in the car again. The nerves from the beginning returned as soon as Daryl noticed the upholstery fabric under him. He wanted to see his people, but at the same time, he thought himself unprepared to re-experience the hole that formed in his chest, every time they had to deal with a similar tragedy.

"What's the plan?" he asked almost in a whisper, "It's true, I don't have one, but I know you do."

Jesus sighed, slightly, "it's just an idea, and I don't want to talk about it here."

"Why?"

"Because you're too impulsive, Daryl, and I know if I tell you, you'll want to take the reins of the situation immediately, and that is not what you need right now."

"You seem pretty sure you know what I need."

"I'm not sure of anything, but after what happened, I guess anyone with minimal common sense would want to see their family, first thing. You can grumble all you want, Daryl, but I know how much they mean to you."

The archer didn't say anything else; Jesus started the car and they continued their journey again. Daryl leaned his head against the window and set his sights in the moving landscape. Then he closed his eyes, wishing the time to pass as quickly as possible.

* * *

He opened his eyes when he heard the familiar sound of the bars; they had arrived and suddenly he felt a tight pressure squeezing his chest. He had thought that maybe when he saw Alexandria again, he would feel some relief, but he couldn't help but look around with strange eyes. He made a mental calculation of the time that had passed since he had crossed those bars to go look for Dwight, and if his memory didn't betray him, it'd been eleven days, not enough time for this place to look so different. Perhaps it was due to the frenzied atmosphere that could be breathed even from the car, or maybe it was the way they looked at them, with suspicious eyes, while they moved through the entrance, as if they were judging them, as if they no longer trusted anything or anyone, no even their own people.

On top of the watch point, were Sasha and Father Gabriel. They gave instructions to let them pass, but they hadn't looked back at them as they entered Alexandria. It was like they were afraid of everything around them, as if looking away from the road meant leaving an opening for a possible attack, for anyone who could be hiding from their persistent scrutiny.

Jesus stopped the car, and the two got out, as they watched Michonne approaching to welcome them. The woman gave them a smile that seemed to draw with difficulty on her face. Then she placed her hands on Daryl's arms and bent to give him a hug to which the archer didn't know how to respond.

"You don't know how glad I am to see you back" Michonne said.

Daryl mumbled something, it was like he wanted to respond to the warm gesture, but the words were not forming in his mouth.

"Everything okay?" He finally managed to ask.

"As good as can be."

That was a vague answer, but he imagined she didn't have much else to say. Then Michonne turned to greet Jesus.

"How is Maggie?" Michonne asked.

"She's recovering," the scout said, "what about the saviors, have they come back after…?"

"No, they haven't," she replied, "Why?"

"We met a group on the road," Daryl said.

Michonne's black eyes widened slightly showing a sudden concern, "Were they headed this way?"

"No, they were going in another direction."

Michonne breathed relief, "are you all right? Did they do something to you?"

Daryl jaw clenched in anger, but it was Jesus who spoke:

"No, they just wanted to have a laugh at our expense. They stole a couple of knives, but that's all."

The archer snorted by his side, not satisfied with the answer, but he said nothing. He looked around, to the eyes of the curious who had moved closer, cautiously, to watch the new visitors. And that's when he missed some familiar faces.

"Where are the rest?" he asked.

"Rick and Abraham went out early in the morning to check the perimeter, make sure there's no one lurking. They'll be back soon. Carl is at home with Judith."

Daryl waited for Michonne to keep talking but it seemed that she had nothing else to add to her short answer.

"Carol?"

A sudden wrinkle formed in Michonne's face, as if she didn't understand the question. Then her face softened again, and her eyes went sad.

"Carol's not here…"

"What do you mean she's not there?"

"She's gone, she left Alexandria. I thought you knew, but I just realized that this happened the same day you went after Dwight. Rick and Morgan went looking for her, but lost her track. Rick came back, but Morgan's still out there."

Daryl filled his lungs with more air than what's possible. That couldn't be happening. They had always been together. Why couldn't things stay the same? He swore to himself, remembering again the moment he decided to take his bike and go after the bastard who had killed Denise. Glenn, Michonne and Rosita, had gone after him, and they'd been in the line imposed by Negan, because of him. If he hadn't been so stubborn, maybe he could have talked to Carol, found out what was going through her head, and stopped her departure. It was useless to think about it now, anyway; there was no turning back.

"Come on," Michonne said, "you look tired. I'm sure you could use something to eat."

"Thank you," Jesus said, looking at the archer in a way he was not sure how to interpret.

"YOU!"

A voice interrupted from behind them, when they were about to reach Rick's house. When they turned, they saw Aaron, walking toward them with firm steps, a bitter anger lighting his face. His eyes, full of rage and pain, never left Jesus.

"You fucking bastard! You! Since you came you've brought us nothing but trouble! This is your fault!"

Before Aaron could pounce on the scout, Michonne and Daryl jumped to stop and grab him, trying to restrain the man, barely managing to do so.

"Aaron, it's okay, it's okay…" Michonne said.

"That's enough, Aaron, calm down," Daryl asked, in an attempt to pull him away, "c'mon, c'mon man… calm down."

Aaron's inconsolable crying was all that could be heard throughout the community. All the people present watched the scene, with tense expressions, acknowledging the pain of their neighbor. Michonne turned away from them while Daryl led him back to his house. Before entering, the archer glanced back, he saw that Jesus bowed his head while Michonne placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, then she said something and the two climbed the stairs to the house's porch and disappeared inside.


	11. Chapter 11

Michonne placed a full glass of water on the granite countertop and then sat in a chair, but by the rigid posture of her back, it didn't look like she intended to stay there for long.

"I'm sorry about Aaron, he–"

"Don't worry, it's okay, I understand. I've been thinking along those lines, too."

"It's not your fault, Jesus" Michonne replied, firmly. "It's not anyone's fault, and we shouldn't waste any more time pointing fingers. Right now, this is between us and them, nothing else"

Michonne was right, it was useless to keep trying to find an explanation for what was happening, but the devastated and angry look he had seen in Aaron took him back to the moment when he saw Rick and Daryl take the truck from the sorghum barn. _His_ truck. A truck full of supplies that he had hidden there, while he waited for the right moment to deliver it to Negan.

He hadn't spoken with Gregory, or anyone at Hilltop, not even Alex, about the fact that he had stopped looking for people, and had dedicated his time out seeking provisions. He had found the truck by chance, and he had decided to use it, not only to transport all that he found, but also as barter. After several months of collecting supplies, he had finally hidden the truck in the sorghum barn, until it was the time to renegotiate the new deal with the saviors, and thus relieve his people of a great burden, if only for some time. But then they appeared, and took the truck. To be fair, he didn't blame them; he supposed that, wherever they came from, they were probably suffering. However, even if he felt sorry for them, he wasn't going to let them take his truck.

Everything could have been different if he had retrieved the truck a couple of days earlier, as he had planned, but there was no turning back, and Michonne was right: this was about the saviors and them. And that was the only positive thing he could made of this whole situation, the fact he had found another community of people who where simply trying survive as they were. Now, they just needed to decide if it was worth fighting together for something else.

"I have to go out, make sure everything goes well with the changing of the guard and check that everything is ready for Rick and Abraham's return. I think Carl is in the backyard, taking care of Judith, you can go and say hi to him, I'm sure he'll be happy to see you. I'll be back in a while; maybe we can sit down and have more of a relaxed talk when Rick comes back."

As Michonne had said, Paul found Carl in the small garden, playing with his sister.

"Paul!"

It amazed him that, of all of them, Carl was the one who was more reluctant to call him by his nickname. Not that he liked that people called him Jesus, but he was so used to it, that it felt like something completely normal.

Carl had asked about Maggie and Daryl, and he was extremely happy to know that, not only were both of them doing well, but that the archer had returned home.

"It seems that things are better there than here," he said, ruefully.

It didn't cost Paul too much to shift their conversation to more mundane things. Carl was a child who had grown too fast in that world, and had become used to the bloodshed in a way he hadn't seen before in anyone his age. Carl had been in the lineup imposed by Negan with the rest of his family, and had witnessed, with the others, the wrongful death of a person who was intimately linked to them. Erasing that image would be very hard for him, especially after what had happened there just a few days ago. It was unnecessary to delve deeper into the wound, so they spent their time talking about how much Judith had grown, the way she tried to stammer her brother's name, and even the stupidest toys he was given a long time ago, in a world that already seemed too distant.

It was getting dark when Rick came through the garden's glass door, completely drenched in sweat. His face looked tired, but his eyes didn't seem as lost as the last time he had seen him. Paul got up to greet him and the former sheriff replied with a generous handshake.

"Glad to see you," he said, "Carl, why don't you go and take Judith up? It's time for her bath and dinner."

Carl took his sister in his arms and carried her away without saying anything, but his face showed a deep uneasiness. It was obvious the roles of the house had changed during the last few days, and Rick demanded Carl take care of his sister to keep him busy and out of the streets.

"I'm afraid," Rick confessed when Carl was gone, "since all this happened, I've seen a darkness in his eyes that had never been there. I see a thirst for revenge that I'm not sure I'll be able to appease and control, and I fear that one day he'll cross those walls and try to settle accounts by himself."

"Carl is a smart kid, Rick."

Rick nodded, but was more than aware that he couldn't restrain his son forever. "How is Maggie?"

"She's fine. She's a strong woman, you know that, and she's fighting with all her strength to keep going."

"You have no idea how glad I am to hear that, I wish we could go to see her."

"You will…"

"What about Daryl? I came straight here, haven't had a chance to talk to him."

"He was affected by what happened, but about as whiny as ever. I guess that should be a good sign."

Rick chuckled in silence.

After Rick took a shower, and Michonne returned back after supervising the activities of the community, the three sat in the kitchen to talk. They told Paul what had happened during the visit of Negan and his men, and how that had affected Alexandria's people, and the new rules they had decided to apply to preserve the security of the area.

"Have you thought about how to stop this?" Paul asked, bluntly.

"Right now, the only thing I can think about is how to prevent more unnecessary deaths."

Paul didn't respond to that, but Rick realized the scout did have something in his mind, so he encouraged him to speak, with a simple gesture.

"Hilltop has a close relationship with another community," he said calmly. Both Rick and Michonne looked at each other reluctantly, but Paul continued: "They are quite far away and–"

"Are they related to Negan?" Rick asked.

"No, they know about the saviors, but they have managed to keep them away all this time. It's not an accessible place and I guess Negan didn't want to risk it, at least for now," Paul took some air. "Ezekiel, their leader, has a lot of people there, people able and prepared to fight. The only thing they don't have are weapons; they have a small arsenal, and what we provide them, but nothing else."

Rick shifted uncomfortably in his chair, aware of what Paul was suggesting. "Why didn't you tell this before?"

"Because it wasn't necessary."

"And now it is?"

"In view of recent events, I'd say yes. We should go, and talk to him."

Rick shook his head. "I don't know if we're prepared to expose ourselves to another group, strangers who can pin us on a map and attack us, as others have done."

"They won't."

"How are you so sure?"

"You'll have to trust me."

Rick snorted and rubbed his face.

"Would they accept?" Michonne said, having remained silent until then. "Would they be willing to help? You said they've managed to keep Negan away so far, why would they want to get involved in this, when it could only bring them trouble."

"Ezekiel is my friend, and he hates Negan as much as we do. I can't guarantee anything, but I think at the very least we should go, and make him aware of the situation."

Rick looked at Michonne, looking for an answer.

"We should go," she replied.

"This will only lead us to one thing..."

"I know."

"And people will die…"

"Right now there're only two options," Paul interrupted, "do nothing and allow them to control everything, or stop it. Look, Rick, I don't want to see any more unnecessary deaths, but doing nothing doesn't ensure us that it won't keep happening."

There was silence in the kitchen for a while. Rick fiddled his fingers on the wooden table and scratched his forehead compulsively, as if he was deliberating all the pros and cons of what the scout was proposing them.

"I need to think about it," he said.

* * *

"Here, a pillow and a blanket," Michonne said, entering the living room. "Sorry for not offering you a bed, but the guest room has become Judith's."

"Don't worry, I'll be fine here," Paul said with a genuine smile.

"I'll talk to him, ok?" Michonne said softly, after a brief silence. "See you tomorrow."

The front door swung open, just before Michonne could leave the living room, and Daryl appeared there like a whirlwind. The archer opened his mouth as soon as he laid his eyes on Paul, to say something, but he stopped when he realized Michonne was present there.

"All good?" she asked.

"Yes, it's… just talked to Rick."

Michonne shook her head, understanding, she looked at Paul as if she was asking him for patience, and then left them alone.

"I knew it," Daryl said, pointing at him an accusing finger, "I knew you were fuckin' lying."

"I didn't lie, I simply didn't tell you all I knew," Paul said, sitting on the couch.

"Why?"

"Because they've been struggling to have a safe area, as much as you and Hilltop have. They're a threat to Alexandria, as much as Alexandria is to them."

Daryl listened to his words carefully, even a little wrinkle of disappointment formed on his forehead, as if it bothered him not being able to prolong the argument, but deep down he knew Paul was right.

"If it makes you feel any better, they don't know about you either," he added.

The archer dropped himself on the other couch, with a heavy sigh. He looked tired, and not just physically. Paul imagined that sharing those last hours with Aaron wouldn't have been easy.

"How is he?" the scout asked.

"Devastated. Eric was all he had here. These people had treated them well, but somehow, they always felt like outsiders. You know…"

Paul nodded. "And here I thought we already got over that."

"There'll always be something to judge…" the archer said, gravely.

The scout looked at Daryl curiously; he had the slight feeling that he was not referring only to Eric and Aaron. He could tell, by his tone, that he saw himself in them somehow. The oddball who doesn't fit in with anyone.

"I don't know what to do to help him" then he said quietly.

"Being there is more than enough for now."

Daryl was silent for a moment, staring at some distant point; it was obvious that his mind was elsewhere. There was something about the way he clenched his jaw that seemed to indicate that he wanted to talk, he wanted to say something else, but either he couldn't find the right words, or he didn't feel comfortable enough to speak them.

"Do you want to step out for a smoke?"

When he turned to face him, the archer frowned with puzzlement difficult to hide, but he immediately understood what Paul was trying to say.

"Yeah…"

They walked together in silence through Alexandria's empty streets. Daryl ducked his head as they passed in front of the house that Eric and Aaron had shared during all this time. Around them, nothing was heard, not even the singing of crickets, and when they finally reached the church, they hadn't come across anyone, and for some reason, the two were grateful for that. They entered the building and went up to the tiny tower.

"Isn't there a smaller, more depressing place we could go for our first date?"

"Shut up," Daryl huffed, but even in the dark, Paul could make out a small smile on his face.

They sat awkwardly on the dusty ground; there was so little space that their shoulders brushed with the slightest movement. Daryl pulled out his pack of cigarettes and lit one. Paul looked at him, watching his face timidly illuminated by the streaks of light that streamed through the wooden slats. Then he reached out a hand, took the cigarette from his mouth, and placed it on his own lips.

Daryl stared at him intently, while the scout took a strong drag.

"Thought you didn't smoke?"

"I don't. I did, some time ago, and only occasionally," the scout looked at the cigarette and let out the smoke, "and it wasn't tobacco."

Daryl chuckled. "Of course, ya' _hippie_ …"

Paul smiled as he took a few more drags. "Yeah… this is disgusting," he said, and handed it back to Daryl.

The archer took it, and their fingers brushed lightly. It was a slight contact, but enough for Paul to suddenly feel his blood quicken in his veins. The scout took a deep breath, breathing in the scent of the cigar, floating in the air like a ghost. It was hot, and he could feel, almost as if it was his own, the smell of the man sitting right beside him. The place, already small, seemed to shrink around him. He didn't understand why he suddenly felt so uncomfortable. So he got up and moved carefully to the other side, sitting in front of the archer, who looked, fixated, the cigarette he held between his fingers.

There was silence for a while, impregnating each of the narrow walls that gave them shelter in that moment. Both of them were absorbed in their own thoughts, even though they shared furtive glances occasionally.

"Are you happy to be back?" Paul asked finally.

Daryl took a drag on his cigarette. "I knew seeing Aaron wouldn't be easy, but I didn't expect the news about Carol. Everythin's changed so much, I kinda feel out of place," he stubbed out his cigarette carefully, and then he looked out, through the wooden slats, with thoughtful eyes. "She's out there, alone, who knows whether she's alive or dead…"

"I heard it's not the first time, I'm sure she knows how to take care of herself."

Daryl shook his head. "I wouldn't have let her go."

"You couldn't have prevented it."

"I'd have tried."

"How?"

"Talking with her."

"It's not easy to listen to others, when you have a fixed idea in your head. You should know that… It's her decision, Daryl, even if you don't agree with it, you should respect it."

"At least I would have liked to be there."

"I'm sure she knew she had you, and if she had needed it, she would have looked for you. It's not your fault, Daryl, and you should stop blaming yourself for everything. This is how things are, sometimes we think the best we can do is to stay away from the people we love, to keep from hurting them."

"Is that what you did with Alex?" That question caught Paul completely off guard. "I saw you slide a letter under his door."

"That's… different"

"Why?"

Suddenly Paul didn't know what to say, because, deep down, he knew it was not different at all. What he had done with Alex was exactly that, avoiding him because he knew that if he kept by his side, all he would do would feed into an illusion, that wasn't going to take them anywhere, but hurt them both. But he was not going to admit it out loud, let alone in front of Daryl.

"We've never been together… officially. Even if it didn't look that way."

"But you love him."

"I love him just as I love others. We spent good times together, and the sex was good, very good, actually… but that's all."

But that was not all. Of course he loved Alex, and he cared about him more than anyone else in Hilltop, but he knew he would never love him as he loved Benjamin, and he doubted that he would be able to feel something like that again, for anyone.

Then he noticed a strange tingling in his stomach, he didn't want to talk about that, not after seeing how Daryl ducked his head and stared at his fingers. He would even swear that the archer blushed at the mention of the most intimate and physical aspect, of his relationship with Alex. In fact it was Daryl who changed the subject deliberately.

"What are we going to do, if that other community says no?" he asked hoarsely.

Paul sighed. "We don't even know if Rick will agree to speak with them."

"He will."

The scout was about to ask why he was so sure, but he knew of the close relationship between him and the sheriff, so he assumed that Rick had not only updated him about what he told them, but he approached him asking for advice.

"If he doesn't accept, we can just give up or find another solution."

"What if he says yes?"

The archer was staring at him in that moment, and perhaps it was due to the prevailing darkness, but Paul thought he saw something in his eyes he couldn't decipher.

"We'll have to fight."

Daryl then shifted his gaze to one of the windows.

"I thought that's what you wanted," Paul said.

"I do want it, but I don't know if I'm ready to lose more people," he said, fixing his eyes on the scout again.

"Nobody is prepared for that, but we shouldn't let the fear decide for us. Fear has weakened Hilltop over the years. We've been living under a false sense of tranquility. I've seen those people paralyzed, with real horror in their eyes, every time those gates opened. I don't want to see more people die, either, Daryl, but even if I can't make it, if I can't see the end of all this, at least I want to fight for those who really deserve to live in a better world."

Daryl watched Paul in silence for a few seconds.

"Those sermons come naturally or you rehearse them?"

"Well… I'm _Jesus_ , what did you expect?"

Not even the archer could control the laugh that escaped his lips.

"Wow, what's that?" Paul said.

"What?"

"It's a smile… never thought I'd see something like that coming from you."

"Fuck off."

"You should do it more often."

"It's not easy, there's not much to smile about lately."

And he was right.

"I should go back and see how Aaron is doing," he said, after reverting to the restrained expression that had been accompanying him recently.

"Sure…"

The archer got up with some difficulty and stood there for a while, as if he was waiting for Paul to do the same.

"Not coming?" He asked.

"I'll stay here a little longer."

Daryl hesitated for a moment, then he turned toward the stairs, but stopped again, looked at the scout, and then finally turned his back and left him alone.

* * *

The sunbeams began to strike the windows just as Rick entered the living room. Paul was lying on the couch but he was not sleeping, in fact he hadn't been able to sleep during all night. His mind was unable to rest; there were too many things to think about.

"Okay," the sheriff said, "we're going. You, Michonne and I."

A few minutes later, Paul was in the bathroom, preparing himself, when he heard some voices coming from outside. He took a look and saw Rick and Daryl talking, they seemed to be arguing, but he couldn't hear about what from there. When he went down, ready for the trip, the main door opened and Rick walked past him, and he didn't seem to be in a good mood.

"Daryl is coming too," he snorted.

Paul didn't contain the smile that formed on his lips. Of course the archer was coming with them, they would need a lot more than some rope to keep the man away from a mission like this.

When the gates of Alexandria opened for them, Rick was driving the car, Paul was sat next to him, ready to give him directions, while Daryl and Michonne occupied the back seats. The scout had warned them that it would be a long trip, about eight or nine hours, so they had prepared with some provisions, in case they needed to stop halfway.

They had started the route following the same path that led them to Hilltop, but after about five hours of travel, Paul had instructed the sheriff to divert northward. Rick carefully watched the road stretching before them, until he finally said:

"We're going to Washington."

"Yes," Paul replied, calmly.

A strange silence reigned in the car, but they continued the rest of the way without problems, stopping just once to fill up the car, and brushing off the idea of stopping to rest as Michonne had suggested.

"Rick, you've been driving for hours," she said with concern.

"The sooner we get there, the better."

After more than eight hours of travel, the city began to take shape on the horizon, as a ghostly apparition. The atmosphere inside the car tightened in anticipation of what may be awaiting them. However everything around seemed to be quiet, perhaps too quiet. There was only silence, both inside and outside the car. Only the remains of what had once been their civilization, accompanied them on the road. Iron and metal specters from a past life, wandering lonely and waiting for nature to take its course, and reclaim what was hers.

After some brief indications, they finally stopped the car near a long bridge. They got out and took a look at the city in front of them. None of them said anything; they just watched their new world in silence.

"It's starting to get dark" Rick commented suddenly "how long until we get there?"

"Technically, we're here," Paul said.

The three of them looked around instinctively, clinging to their guns, with obvious bewilderment.

"What're we waiting for?" Daryl asked.

"Them. And before they come, I should warn you about some things about The Kingdom."

"The Kingdom?" Daryl huffed.

"Yeah, man I didn't name it. Look, their leader, Ezekiel, is someone… peculiar. People refer to him as the king, his highness, majesty… well, whatever you prefer. You should also know that he keeps a pet tiger."

"A tiger?" Michonne said with astonishment.

"You're fuckin' kidding, right?" Daryl said.

"Not at all, I'm telling you this just so you know, but hold your judgment until you met him, under all that pageantry, hides a great person, believe me."

They waited for a few minutes until they heard the ringing of horse's hooves. A bouncing sound that echoed between the tall buildings. They stood there, expectantly, until they saw, through one of the avenues, three mounted horsemen appear, dressed in something similar to black armor. They stopped at a safe distance and one of them raised a sword in the air before speaking:

"Who dares trespass on the sovereign land of…? Oh shit, Jesus? Is that you?" Paul stepped forward so the men could see him better. "Hot damn, man! It's been a long time, we didn't recognize you! Who are these people?"

"New friends. These are Rick, Michonne, and Daryl."

"From Hilltop?"

Paul turned to look at Rick, he didn't want to mention Alexandria if he was not willing or ready to do so. But it was the sheriff who spoke:

"No, we come from another community called Alexandria."

The men looked at each other with acknowledgement.

"Are you looking for someone?" They asked to everyone's surprise.

Rick hesitated for a moment, as if he wasn't sure how to answer that question.

"We're missing two people," he said then.

"Names."

"Why do you want to know?" Daryl said quickly, not feeling comfortable with the direction the conversation was taking.

Paul put a hand on his arm, asking him, without saying anything, to stay calm, but Michonne stepped forward.

"Carol and Morgan."

The man who'd been speaking pursed his lips and shook his head slightly.

"Follow us."

The Kingdom was not far from there; the safe zone was located around an old school, and surrounded by high walls with large vehicles guarding the whole area. All of them, except for Paul, were forced to lay down their weapons, and to leave the car outside.

Inside, they followed Liam, the man who had spoken to them, and entered the main building, walking through its long corridors until they stopped in front of the meeting room. Liam told them to go in ahead of him. The room was the typical school hall, with its large seating area and a stage in the background. On it, and presiding over the whole place, was a throne. Daryl couldn't help but shake his head in disbelief.

They didn't have time to share their first impressions of the place, as Ezekiel didn't wait, and appeared with his tiger behind the wings. He was a tall man, with brown skin and thick gray dreadlocks that fell past his shoulders. In one hand he carried a long staff and in the other one he was holding the chains of his tiger. He moved through the stage with ease and elegance, as a real king.

"Jesus, my old friend! I'm so glad to see you again."

Paul stepped forward to greet the man. Then Ezekiel sat on his throne and allowed the tiger to lie down beside him. Daryl rolled his eyes, while Michonne watched the whole scene with a stoic expression, as if she didn't understand what was going on.

"We've been told that you know the whereabouts of two of our friends" Rick said, without waiting for any kind of formal presentation.

The gesture didn't seem to please Ezekiel, as he stared with wrinkled forehead at Paul.

"Let me introduce you: these are Rick, Michonne and Daryl" Paul said calmly, "they come from a place like this, called Alexandria."

"Ah, I see… yes, now I understand. How did you know they were here?"

"We didn't, we've just been told," Rick said.

"What has brought you to the Kingdom then, if you weren't looking for your friends?"

"We would like to see them now, check that they're ok."

"Do you doubt my hospitality?" Ezekiel asked.

"Where are they?" Daryl snapped hoarsely.

Ezekiel moved his long staff, visibly irritated.

"Excuse them," Paul intervened, "It's been a long journey and they are concerned, the saviors are lurking around, and they fear they may have done something to them."

Ezekiel sighed quietly. "Those bastards… You're friends are ok, you'll have to trust my word, and you will see them, but that will have to be after you tell me what has brought you here, so far away from your home."

It was Paul who explained to Ezekiel the events that had taken place over the past weeks, from his meeting with Alexandria, to the agreement with Hilltop to kill the saviors. The bad resolution of the plan, and the ambush they suffered as they tried to seek help for Maggie.

"A few days ago they appeared in our community, and killed three other innocent people," Rick stated.

Ezekiel closed his eyes, he listened to their story carefully, and the exasperation could be read all over his face. "That son of Satan… he is just one man, _one_ fucking man, for the love of God! It could be so easy to end his tyranny, if half those cowards who follow him like dogs revolted against him."

"But they aren't doing it, and we can't wait until that happens," Paul said.

Ezekiel fixed his black eyes on Paul. "I don't know what the Kingdom has to do with all of this, we have kept Negan away from here, and we're doing well; we have a safe area and everything we need to survive."

"We expected more compassion and help from your part."

"You have my compassion, my friend, I'm really sorry hear about all you've been through. But I don't see how we can help you."

"Joining the fight," Daryl snapped, impatiently. "It's not just about Hilltop or Alexandria, it's about all of us. How long do you think it'll take him to come here, huh? Maybe they haven't done it yet, but they will, because that son of a bitch wants it all. And he will kill people, _your_ people. You decide, if you want to stay there, sitting on your fuckin' throne, playing king and struttin' around with your tiger, as if this were a fuckin' circus, while that fucker continues take everything he finds in his path, and kills innocent people, who've just been trying to survive in–"

In that moment the tiger got up and let out a deep roar that resounded through all the walls of the hall. All, without exception, stepped back, while Ezekiel rested a reassuring hand on the animal, without taking his eyes off the archer. Then he turned look at Paul.

"Are you really thinking about fighting?"

"There's nothing else we can do," the scout said.

Ezekiel rose from his seat. "You have done a lot of good things for this community, Jesus, and you've never asked for anything in return, and although I disapprove of his manners, I understand that your grouchy friend here is right. This is about all of us. I want to see Negan disappear as much as you do, but I can't make a decision like this, by myself. We will call a council, first thing tomorrow morning, I will explain all this to my people, and we will let the majority decide. I can't do anything else for now, so let me offer you something to eat and drink. Let us think upon more pleasant things, at least until the next sunrise. Come on, come with me, I'll take you to see your friends. Oh, and by the way, Jesus, you won't believe it, but you can't imagine how much _Dama_ has missed you."


	12. Chapter 12

Daryl was not prepared for the emotions that surfaced within him when the steel door opened and he saw Carol, lying on a bed that looked like something out of a madhouse. Her skin was pale as ice, and she narrowed her forehead in a gesture that expressed a pain, that seemed to be attacking her even in dreams. She was sleeping, not as placidly as she should, but at least she rested after what she had suffered.

Morgan told them how and where he had found her, the way she had tried to escape from him again, and what he had to do to save her life. Morgan also told them about The Kingdom and the help they had provided, when he thought there was nothing he could do for Carol.

"Thanks…" Rick had said after hearing his story.

"Told you I would find her."

The group then told him what had happened during those two weeks, in his absence: the unfortunate encounter with the saviors on the road, and the tragic death of Glenn, as well as Eric, Tobin and Olivia. They also put abreast the real reasons for their visit to The Kingdom. Morgan listened to the news with sobriety, but he said nothing about it, maintaining the reserve that characterized him. The group didn't expect big words on his part; after all, there was not much he could say.

After showing them where they were going to spend the night, they were offered something to eat, but Daryl excused himself, assuring he was not hungry, and left the group to go see Carol. There he waited, sitting beside her bed, until she woke up. They didn't say anything for a while, they just looked at each other, like they were watching a mirage and trying to decide whenever it was real or not.

"I'm dreaming?" Carol had asked, with a small voice.

Not only she was not dreaming, but what Daryl told her brought her back to a reality she was desperately trying to leave behind.

She cried. She cried for Eric, Olivia and Tobin, good and humble people with whom she had shared more than a friendship in those last months. But above all, she wept inconsolably for Glenn and Maggie. Daryl couldn't do more than watch her and offer a shoulder to cry on. It hurt him to see her like that, more than any whipping or bullet he could take, but he knew that even if it wasn't good news, it was necessary for her to know.

"How is Maggie now?" she asked, while Daryl pushed the wheelchair in which she was sitting.

"You know how she is, haven't seen anyone take that many hits and get up back the way she does."

"I'll go see her as soon as I can get out of this chair. And how are you?"

Daryl contemplated the answer for a brief moment. It was a simple question, but it was not as easy to answer as expected. The wound in his shoulder was a pittance compared to all the other events. Not only that, he also thought about the real reason they were there, and what that would mean in the not too distant future. So, of all the emotions that ran through his veins, the one he felt the most, above the others, was anxiety. When he finally decided to offer Carol a response, all he said was:

"I'm fine."

They continued their walk through the corridors, walking slowly and accompanied by a complacent silence, interrupted only by those they passed and who greeted them with honest courtesy.

"It's here," Carol said, after guiding him through an endless network of corridors.

Daryl opened the door, and helped Carol maneuver around a mountain of books by the entrance. The archer looked around. They were in the library, or at least that's what it looked like; there were so many books piled all over the place that it had to be that or they were in a real paper garbage dump.

"It's amazing, right?"

"Yeah, we could have fire for a few winters with all this."

Carol laughed, and Daryl pushed the chair to the center of the room, where there was a long wooden table, also covered with books.

"When I got here, I had lost so much blood that I spent two days completely unconscious. When I woke up, Ezekiel was in my room. He presented himself, and gave me a lecture about how lucky I was that they found us. To be honest, I was not in the mood to listen to anything that man, with his kingly airs, had to say. I knew perfectly well why I decided to leave Alexandria, and to leave behind all those people I'd loved, like my own family, for the past two years. I didn't want to listen to him. The next day, he brought me here and told me that if I wasn't able to find peace in this place, I wouldn't find it anywhere else."

"What a pretentious prick."

Carol looked at Daryl with a grin on her face. "Yeah, well, I told him to fuck off, as you can imagine. However, I have to recognize that the time I spent here, made me thinking about a lot things," Then Carol took a book in her hands. "It's incredible to think about the amount of time that will have to pass until we have a new and original copy. The world has stopped, but we're still here."

"The world hasn't stopped," Daryl responded, "it's just changed."

Carol shook her head in agreement.

"Tomorrow we're going back home," the archer continued, "you can come with us, you can even go to Hilltop until you recover, there's a doctor, and you can be close to Maggie."

"No" she replied softly, "I wont move, at least not for now. I need some time, Daryl, I need some time to figure out where my place is in all this mess, and I can't do it with you all, because I'm unable to lower my guard. This is a safe place, I'll be fine here."

Daryl's face contracted into a bitter expression, and Carol laid her hands on the archer's arms.

"This is not goodbye, okay? I'll see you soon," she said, giving him a smile that tried to offer him some reassurance.

Daryl nodded, but his eyes didn't hide the sadness he felt as he watched his family slowly falling apart. Then he started to move around the library, looking at the piles of books. There were so many that the shelves had all but disappeared.

"I feel like Maggie won't come back, either," he said, distracted.

"Sometimes the ways have to separate, but we're still a family, although we're not together."

They were silent for a while, as the archer walked between the colorful mountains, looking at the covers and spines, but not registering anything in particular. There were books of all kinds, from classics, with their worn leather covers, to more modern copies full-colored. Suddenly one of them caught his attention. It was in one of the shelves, placed horizontally over a long row of stacked books. The archer took it; it was a heavy book, with a thick spine.

"Think they'll notice if I nick this one?"

"An odd choice…" Carol said, glancing. Then she smiled, "but I guess not."

* * *

Daryl looked through the window of the room he was offered during the night, when he heard a soft knock on the door, to which the archer responded with a grunt. The door opened and Jesus stuck in his head from the other side.

"I know you said you weren't hungry, but this was left over from dinner," he said showing him a plastic Tupperware in his hands. "Roast chicken? I'm sure as soon as you smell it, your stomach won't resist."

Daryl looked at the scout and realized that Jesus hadn't moved from under the doorway, as he spoke, moving the cold food in the air, with excessive enthusiasm.

"You can come in. Your friend, the Crazy King, might call me grouchy, but I don't bite," the archer said in his hoarse voice.

"Maybe you're not familiar with it, but it's called: etiquette."

"Yeah, you can keep telling yourself that…"

"That was an emergency."

Jesus came into the room with a caution that was not usual for him. The room he was offered was not very big, but it had a small dresser where the scout placed the food he had brought for the archer.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"Happy to see that she's fine. For once there's some good news."

"You knew she would be fine."

"No," the archer said gravely. "I know what she's capable of, but too many bad things have happened recently."

The conversation was briefly interrupted by the cheerful voices of a group of young people walking down the hallway. Daryl sighed, and turned his gaze back to the window. "I can't offer you that shit you like to smoke, but… do you want a cigarette?"

The corner of Jesus' lips curled slightly. "Sure."

The Kingdom's nightlife was very different from Hilltop or Alexandria, where people used to take shelter in their homes just as the sun went down, and very few, except for those who were on duty, chose to walk under the night's black mantle. The Kingdom seemed to maintain the city's forgotten spirit, with the incessant bustle that never slept, and that now had been replaced by the evening's pleasant whistling breeze. There were people in the streets, people aware of what was on the other side of the walls, but still expressed a nonchalant attitude that was contagious even for the archer.

They walked along the streets surrounding the school, under the timid light offered by some of the streetlights they left on for a few hours, until the community finally went inside to sleep and wait for the sunrise.

"It's over there," Jesus said, breaking the silence, and pointing to a small path.

After leaving his room, the scout told him he wanted to show him something. Daryl had protested because he really wanted a smoke, but had followed Jesus anyway. They moved down the dark path and walked to a secluded spot, where he quickly sensed the smell of horses, straw and wet wood. Shortly after, they reached the front door of the stables.

"Wasn't there a darker and smellier place?" the archer tried to joke.

"Are you really complaining about odor?"

"This is the end of the world, man, I have bigger concerns than going around smelling like berries or whatever that shit you use is."

"It's called shampoo, Daryl…"

Jesus opened the door, and they were received by the neighing of the horses, that didn't seem very excited about the disruption in their off hours. The scout lit a small gas lamp and walked down the long corridor guarded by the pens placed at both sides. The animals poked their heads out, watching and smelling them. Daryl reached out a hand and stroked the noses of some of the horses, who welcomed the stranger's contact.

"There she is" Jesus said, pointing to one of the pens.

As if responding to his voice, a mare peeked over the door. Jesus left the gas lamp on the floor and quickly put his hands on the animal's nose, which responded enthusiastically, making a sharp snort and shaking its head up and down. Daryl watched the scout; in the short time he'd known him, he had never seen him smiling as he was in that moment.

"This is _Dama_. Isn't she beautiful?" He said, absorbed.

 _Dama_ was a white mare with brown spots covering every inch of her slender body. Around the mouth and nose, she had a brown stain separated by a white stripe, and her blond hair fell over her neck like a waterfall. Daryl had to admit _Dama_ was one of the most beautiful horses he had ever seen.

The archer approached her carefully, and extended his hand, letting the animal smell him and familiarize with him before he thought about touching her.

"They rescued her from an abandoned farm, a few miles from here. She was alone, dehydrated, all skin and bones. There were walkers all around the fence, and that rotten wood was all what protected her from a certain death. She'd been here for a week when I paid them a visit. They were unable to control her, she attacked almost everyone who–"

"Oh, I see where this story is going" the archer interrupted, "then you came, with your irresistible hippie charm, winning her over."

Jesus laughed. "No, not at all, she gave me a good kick and knocked me down, the moment I tried to get close."

"Good girl…" Daryl said, gently stroking the mare's nose, "think we're already best friends."

"I spent two weeks here and I came to see her every single day. There was something in her eyes, it was like she felt sorry about her behavior, but at the same time, she was so scared… I stayed in the stables a couple of nights, sitting here, reading and keeping her company, but she still showed distrust," Daryl listened to the story attentively, while he watched Jesus slide his fingers tenderly, on the animal's nose and neck. "The last day, before I left, I came to say goodbye to her, she was surprisingly quiet, so in a real act of faith, I decided to mount her, and although at first she wasn't feeling comfortable, she finally managed to relax. I stayed there, lying over her, listening to her breathing and heartbeat, for a while. She's the only female I have fallen in love with, completely" _Dama_ licked his face as though she understood his words, and the two men laughed. "She has such a nerve and energy when she runs, I wish I had more time to go out with her. Have you ever ridden?"

"Only if they had two wheels."

"You should try one day, course that will depend on how willing she is, she's quite demanding."

Shortly after they left the stables, leaving the animals alone, they walked back down dark paths. Around them, the community's activity was winding down, giving way to the stillness of the night that they were more used to. Daryl lit his cigarette at last, and offered it to Jesus, but he refused it.

"You could kneel down and lick the asphalt, it would be virtually the same," the scout said.

They continued their walk calmly until Jesus stopped short, and Daryl looked at him, confused. "What?" the archer asked.

"Just remember something."

The scout didn't say what it was, he just told the archer to follow the road and wait for him at the top of the school's south tower. When the archer went up the endless dark stairs, he kept blaspheming and wondering why he hadn't ignored the chatterbox and returned to his room. But he couldn't help being curious about what he had gone looking for.

He had spent a good twenty minutes waiting, until he finally heard the access door, and Jesus appeared in the tower with that satisfied smile of his planted on his face.

"I was about to leave," the archer growled.

"Be glad you didn't."

From his pants' pocket, he pulled a small and transparent plastic bag, and moved it in front of Daryl's nose, for the archer to see what it was.

"Weed? You fuckin' kidding me? You made me wait for some grass?"

"The door was open, you waited because you wanted to."

Jesus opened one of the large and tall windows presiding the four walls of the tower, and sat on the sill.

"Where did you get it?" Daryl asked.

"There's a guy here who cultivates it, he says it's only for medicinal use," he said, rolling his eyes "but you have no idea how expensive he sells it, the asshole."

"How did you pay him?"

"That's a secret… give me one of your cigarettes."

There was something in the seemingly innocent tone the scout had used, that caused a singular tingling in Daryl's stomach. The archer pulled out a cigarette and then rubbed his face, he imagined he was just tired and his brain wasn't working as it should. He then sat next to Jesus while he rolled the joint.

"I don't know what will come of this, I lost a lot of practice."

Then they heard a door slam and both jumped, startled, and remaining paralyzed for a few seconds, until they realized it had only been a current of cold air that had slammed the access door. They snorted with relief; Jesus began to laugh, and Daryl shook his head in amazement.

"We're like two fuckin' teenagers, hiding and smoking weed… stop laughing!"

But the scout laughed even harder.

"Shit… you'll be insufferable once you smoke that shit."

"I'm sure you've done worse things than smoking a little weed," he replied, more calm.

Daryl said nothing, because as soon as he heard those words he thought of the drunken nights, and the fights, and the vague memories provided by bruises, broken noses, and blood over his body and clothes.

"Well, it doesn't look that bad."

Jesus put the spliff on his lips, and looked at Daryl with a triumphant smile. The archer grimaced but ultimately he couldn't help but laugh at the situation. He then reached into the front pocket of his shirt and pulled out the lighter, and held it for Jesus, who leaned forward and took a couple of drags, sucking the heat from the flame, until it lit up with an intense color.

Daryl couldn't take his eyes off the scout, while he watched him move his lips over the joint, and again, not sure why, he thought about the deal he may have made with the guy who sold him the weed.

"Yes…" the scout said, "this is something else, man."

Jesus let out the smoke, and then passed it to Daryl. The archer caught it between his fingers and took a couple of puffs. He hadn't smoked weed in a long while, and he had to admit that the feeling was much more pleasant than a simple cigarette.

They smoked in silence, passing the spliff from one to the other, as they watched the community under them, and the sleeping city in the distance.

"I love this place," Jesus said, suddenly.

"Seems you have friends here, why don't you stay?"

Jesus was silent for a few seconds, and then he took a drag on the cigarette and blew the smoke. " Hilltop needs me."

"Are they even aware of all you do for them?"

The scout shrugged. "Does it matter? I just do what I have to do. They need help, and I offer it."

"They need help because they have become used to having some else doing the hard work. If one day something happens there, how many of them you think would be able to defend themselves, are you going to save every single one of their asses? You're willing to go into a war with Negan, but what if these people here say no, huh? That they don't want to fight against the saviors? We don't have anyone."

"I'll show them how to fight."

Daryl made a strange sound with his mouth, and took the cigar from the scout's fingers.

"You're fuckin' crazy, man."

"You're right…"

They remained in silence until the joint was almost completely consumed.

"I always heard that kissing a smoker tastes totally different," Jesus said, suddenly. "Now that I think of it, I think I remember the difference, although I spent many years with Benjamin and _this_ was all we smoked, and only occasionally. It was like our ritual, when I came back home after a long trip, it helped me to clear my mind."

"Your boyfriend?" the archer asked, feeling a sudden dryness in his throat that he attributed to weed.

Jesus looked up, staring into nothing in particular, as if he realized that the words hadn't been part of his thoughts, and he had said them loud and clear in the presence of another person.

"He was much more than my boyfriend, I loved him more than anyone else; he was everything to me."

Jesus' voice had faded into a taciturn whisper, and Daryl couldn't help but feel sorry for him. Jesus was an open and selfless person, who had an innate ability to make an impression in anyone who crossed his path, and although he would never admit it out loud, the scout had also gotten into him. Jesus gave everything for others, even risking his own life, but Daryl realized that he was alone; there was no one at his side who really cared about him. He could think of Alex, but that may be it. He had no people around to protect him. He recalled then the words the scout had said to him, at Barrington House's viewpoint, when he went there to apologize, after Maggie told him off for what had happened in the rice store. Jesus had told him that he was not aware of what he had, and perhaps he had been right. He was lucky; he had a family, people willing to do anything for him.

Daryl looked at Jesus; the scout had closed his eyes as he took the last drags of the spliff. For a moment he considered asking what he was thinking about, but ultimately he chose not to. He imagined that perhaps he was remembering Benjamin and that, for some reason, gave him a pinch in the pit of his stomach.

"I'll let you have the honor" Jesus said, turning to look at him and handing him what was left of the cigar, Daryl took it, then the scout moved from where he was and stood. "Whatever they finally decide, tomorrow will be a long day, we should go and get some sleep. Will you know how to get back to your room or do you need me to take you by the hand?"

"Go away."

The scout laughed. "Goodnight."

Daryl watched him as he disappeared down the stairs. Then he heard the access door, and knew he was alone. Then he looked at the spliff between his fingers, took a last puff and stubbed it out. "Goodnight."


	13. Chapter 13

The impatience was making him doubt his own sanity, if he still had any. From the moment he got out of bed, Daryl felt an overwhelming concern pounding every inch of his body. He had barely been able to sleep, and after some time tossing and turning in bed, he rose and spent most of the night seated, observing the prevailing darkness through the tiny window of the room he had been offered.

He kept thinking about Carol and his family, and how the most important pillars of his new life were crumbling slowly, even before he could do anything about it. He snorted angrily, not wanting to over-dramatize the situation because –and although he didn't want admit it– Carol was right, even when separated, they were still together, and after all, the most important thing was that they were still alive, they were there, able to keep fighting, for the people that remained there with them, and for those who weren't.

Inevitably, he thought about what would happen if The Crazy King finally agreed to join forces with them and fight against Negan. That was not going to be a bed of roses, that would be a full-fledged war, and undoubtedly there would be deaths; more victims to add to a black list that grew longer with each passing day. He just hoped, and prayed to whoever was listening, to not have to add the names of those people who meant so much to him. Because the thought of Rick, Michonne, Carol, Maggie, or Abraham and Aaron, having the same fateful end as Glenn, caused him such a lump in his throat, that at times he felt he wasn't able to fill his lungs with enough air.

He drew a hand over his face tightly, when he suddenly remembered Jesus' words when they were in the church's tower back in Alexandria. The scout had said that he didn't care if he perished in the attempt, if at least he was able to help others to have and live in a better world. And he had to laugh at the thought, not only because it was almost impossible for him to imagine that anything could happen to that man, who seemed to move around the world like a grasshopper, but because the mere thought of him not seeing the end of it all, caused an intense and painful chill to course down his spine.

The knocks on the door brought him back to the tiny and unfamiliar room, he was in. He glanced out the window to find out, with astonishment, that the first rays of sun were starting to peek over the horizon, illuminating the distant and high silhouettes of the remains of a lost city. Then he opened the door and was met by Rick, who informed him that the council would take place in half an hour, although from their group, they would only allow Jesus to be present.

They've been waiting in the hallway for at least two hours. On the other side of the school hall's door, they could hear the murmur of voices rising and falling with intensity, as they discussed the pros and cons of what they had just been proposed, but from outside they could barely make out what they were really saying in there.

Daryl was losing his patience, and it was not because he didn't understand that this was not an easy situation, and that the consequences of their decision, whether they accepted or not, would affect all of them. Still the uncertainty was consuming his nerves.

"They won't agree" Michonne said suddenly, distracted, as if her words were just a thought formulated aloud. "Why would they want to?"

"This is crazy," Carol said, who had joined them the moment they had arrived there, "but this situation affects them too; Negan will end up coming here, sooner or later, and they have to be aware of that."

"What will happen if they agree?" Morgan said. "It's one thing to know how to hold a gun, and quite another to have a cool enough head to function in a fight like this. We're talking about war; they need to be prepared to make decisions in critical, life and death situations."

"We'll show them how," Rick replied adamantly, without looking away from the window he'd been standing by for a while.

The hall's door suddenly opened, interrupting the conversation abruptly. They all turned to look, and saw Jesus coming out and closing the door behind him. The expression on his face didn't seem to confirm or deny anything, so Daryl stepped forward, unable to contain himself anymore.

"So what, what did they say?" He asked.

The scout puffed out his chest with a deep breath, "they agreed."

None of those present were able to suppress the loud sigh that escaped from their throats. A sound that filled the air at the corridor, with a mixture of relief, excitement and fear.

The hall's door opened again, and all the members from The Kingdom, who had wanted to raise their voice in the council, started to leave, followed by an intense whisper. Some of them passed by, with their serious faces, not even looking at them. Others, however, showed enthusiasm. They seemed animated, and fully convinced and ready to fight. Ezekiel was the last one to leave the hall, and when he did he approached them.

"Well, the decision is made, as I suppose Jesus has already informed you. We can say, therefore, that we're in this together, officially," he paused briefly, in case anyone wanted to add something, but everyone seemed to be waiting for him to continue talking. "Four weeks, that's the time we're going to give ourselves, until our paths cross again. Four weeks to train thoroughly, mentally and physically. Then we will meet again, to try to draft a plan."

"Do you think that's enough?" Morgan asked.

"It should be," Rick replied, "if we lose any more time, we run the risk of them discovering we're up to something. The most important thing about this plan is the surprise factor; we have to catch them off guard, let them believe they're still in control of the whole situation."

"Exactly, my friend," Ezekiel said. "During these four weeks we should also find out where their camp is, how many they are, how many men they have that would really be able to fight back, and discover all their weaknesses, as well as to make sure they don't have more outposts."

"I'll take care of that," Jesus said, "I'll try to find a group and follow them to their camp. If I don't hit too many complications, then I'll try to sneak in, check how many weapons they have, and find out how they live. I'm convinced that not all them are able to fight, so we have to make sure of that."

Suddenly there was silence; at least that's they way Daryl felt. Or it was that he thought the plan was so stupid that the blood didn't quite reach his brain.

"Perfect!" Ezekiel said then.

Daryl let out some kind of a sarcastic snort, and everyone turned to look at him. "What! Am I the only one who thinks him going alone is fuckin' dumb?"

"Maybe he's right…" Rick said, "someone should go with you, in case something goes wrong."

"I didn't say it would be easy," Jesus replied, "but we have no more options. Two people would considerably increase the chances of them catching us."

"Do you think you can really do it?" Rick asked.

"Yes."

The confidence in Jesus' response, seemed to be enough to convince the rest of the group, but Daryl shook his head, irritated.

"Okay," Ezekiel said finally, "see you all in four weeks."

* * *

"You sure you don't want to come back with us?" Daryl asked Carol once they entered her room, after helping her sit up in the bed.

"Please, I don't want to have this conversation again, Daryl. Yes. I'm sure. Don't worry about me, I'll be fine here, believe me."

"You'll end up as crazy as him."

"Maybe I am already… I'm serious, don't worry about me," she insisted.

Daryl was not happy with her decision, but he could only reluctantly accept her words, so he turned to look through the window; from there, he could see much of The Kingdom and its people working in the agricultural, livestock and domestic labors. In the background, the modern city completely defeated and abandoned.

"What's wrong?" Carol asked, after watching the archer curiously.

"Huh?"

"You look worried, _very_ worried, I'd say."

"Why shouldn't I be? Each of us goin' our separate ways, goin' straight to war? And for some reason, everyone assumes we're gonna win, should I be throwin' confetti or somethin?"

"No, of course not, but there's something else, right?… has it anything to do with Jesus?"

Daryl turned quickly to look at Carol, as if she'd just uttered the worst of the insults.

"What? Why would you ask that? No."

"I don't know, you seemed pretty upset by his decision to follow the saviors by himself."

"Isn't it stupid?"

"It's dangerous, yes, but someone has to do it. And it's true that I don't know him as much as you do, but I've heard good things about him; they think highly of him here, and he did look quite certain he could do it."

"And I was convinced I'd catch that bastard who killed Denise, 'n ended up with a bullet in my shoulder."

"It's not the same situation, Daryl, you weren't in your best state of mind…"

The arched groaned and muttered something, but said nothing else, he just turned around again to fix his eyes out of the room.

"He seems like a good man…" Carol said, after a few minutes of silence.

"He's a pain in the ass, why the heck you keep talkin' about him?"

Carol didn't answer his question, but the corners of her lips curled into a slight smile. "Come here," she said then, extending her arms, "give me a hug."

Daryl didn't hesitate, he got close and sat on the bed beside her and wrapped his arms around Carol, offering her an emotional and tender embrace.

"I'll see you soon," she whispered.

"Yeah…"

Then they separated, and the woman placed her palms on either side of the archer's face.

"You've always been, and still are, like a brother to me, Daryl, and I love you just as you are, we all do, hope you're aware of that. You have a great and noble heart, but you have to stop being afraid, because that fear doesn't let you see what's in front of you, or lower that obstinate shield of yours."

Daryl looked into Carol's eyes, unsure how to take her words. Suddenly he felt a intense heat over his cheeks, and he had to look away, not able to understand what was embarrassing him in that moment, or why his heart was beating so hard in his chest. Perhaps it was the prospect of getting away from Carol, and yes, he was sure that was one of the reasons, but he also knew it was due to the deeper meaning of the words she had uttered.

"See you soon…" the archer said, then.

* * *

They left The Kingdom a few hours before noon, and like the day before, they didn't expect to make stops during the trip. They wanted to arrive to Alexandria as soon as possible, to make sure nothing unusual had happened during their hours of absence, and report back on the agreement they had reached with this new community, unknown to them until now.

At the wheel on that occasion was Michonne, who had insisted that Rick needed to rest, so the sheriff had finally sat in the passenger seat, and behind them were Daryl and Jesus. They didn't talk much during the trip, it seemed that each of them were too absorbed in their own thoughts and conjectures, to break the silence that, far from being annoying, they found reassuring and comforting.

After a few hours of travel, fatigue began to take its toll on some of them. Rick leaned back in his seat, despite being unable to take his eyes off the road. And Jesus had settled, resting his head against the back of the seat, eyes closed, but Daryl had serious doubts he was actually asleep.

The sun was hidden behind the mountains, offering the last gasps of clarity, when they passed through Alexandria's gates. Abraham was the first to approach and welcome them, and listen to the news. Rick made a quick and basic overview of the events, and assured him that in the morning they would meet with everyone to explain in detail what was going on. At the moment, the sheriff had told him, the four of them needed a good rest.

Michonne invited Daryl to join them, and Jesus, for dinner, but the archer had rejected the offer; He needed to clear his mind and wanted to check how Aaron was doing.

"I thought about making some pasta," Aaron said, standing beside the kitchen island. "It's not very original, I know, but it's not too much work."

When Daryl had entered the house, he found Aaron surrounded by boxes while reorganizing books, objects and documents. He seemed distracted, but he had managed to sketch a wan smile when he saw him. The archer told him everything that had happened during the trip, and the comforting surprise of finding Carol and Morgan there, in that new community. He had also told him about the agreement they'd reached with them. Aaron received the news with discretion, and without uttering a word.

"Don't worry, sit down, I'll make dinner," the archer said.

"No, no way, you just got back from a long journey, and it looks like you haven't slept too much, you're tired. I can handle some pasta, Daryl. Meanwhile, you can go and take a shower."

"Nah, I'm fine."

Aaron gave him a fiery look, and Daryl could only leave the kitchen and go upstairs. When he came down again, the table was already set, and dinner ready.

"This new community…" Aaron said after a while, "should we really trust them? You know what happened here: Negan, the wolves… and those at the Terminus you met on your way."

"Don't worry, apart from the fact their leader is an arrogant asshole who has a pet tiger, I saw nothing worrisome. They're normal people, like us…"

"Yes, we can say that, compared to the rest, we are normal people," Aaron said, going for a joking tone but not getting there.

"Yeah, anyways, Paul seems to be pretty close with them."

" _Paul_?"

"What? Y'all are nuts if you think I'm gonna call him _Jesus_."

Aaron gave him a look the archer couldn't quite understand. Then he bowed his head and continued eating his pasta with his face almost buried in his plate.

"I should apologize…" Aaron said, lowering his voice.

"You've got every right to be angry, Aaron… but it's not his fault, just do what's right for you."

"I know it just happened, but sometimes I sit down, staring at nothing, and wondering if I'll be able to overcome it. I can still feel him next to me when I lie in bed, or move around the house."

Daryl looked to one side and the other, "Man, yer fuckin' scarin' me," he joked in an attempt to distract and lift the spirits of the other man.

And it seemed to work, because Aaron let out a slight laugh, though the sound accompanying it was full of sadness.

"Worst of all," he continued, "is that I'm sure that if he is somewhere watching me, he would be angry at me, seeing me sad and depressed, not wanting to leave the house for fear of meeting all that people there, and their compassionate looks that do nothing but remind me, each passing minute, of what I've lost."

"You'll get over it. Someone…someone told me once that we all need time, and we have to spend some of that alone, but right now you're here with me, and man, you'll have plenty of time to mourn if that's what you want, but right now? Let's bring on the wine and celebrate that we're going to kill those mother fuckers."

After dinner Daryl was able to persuade Aaron to go out and take a walk through the dark streets of Alexandria, convinced that, at that time, they would cross hardly anyone. When they passed Rick's house, thought, they saw that Jesus was on the porch, sitting quietly in a rocking chair. Aaron glanced at Daryl, as if he was asking for advice, but the archer just shrugged, letting him made the decision.

Aaron took a deep breath and walked toward the porch's stairs of the house, but stopped before stepping on the first step.

"May l…?" He asked carefully.

"Sure."

But before Aaron could even move, Jesus rose from the chair and walked toward the stairs to sit on the top step. Aaron joined him. Meanwhile, Daryl watched the two men and realized that they needed some privacy, but there was no place for him to go, and he didn't want to leave Aaron alone. So he began to walk down the street, up and down, trying to turn a deaf ear to their conversation, although it was almost impossible.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you, I don't usually behave like that, but…" Aaron paused and took a deep breath, "I know it's not your fault, we all agreed to board this runaway train."

"We'll stop it, Aaron."

Aaron nodded, but kept his eyes fixed on the wooden steps.

"I feel your loss, I'm really sorry…" the scout added, sincerely. "I wish things were different, but I don't know what else to say, to be honest."

"There's not much you can say, it could've been anyone, but it was them. I miss him already. I _miss_ him _so_ much, but we have to move on, right?" Jesus shook his head but said nothing. "Daryl told me about the plan to fight the saviors. I don't like this, I don't like it at all, but I'll be there, fighting, I'll do it for Eric, and the others."

Then Aaron got up from his seat and Jesus followed him, also standing up.

"I'll see it through with you, whatever happens."

"Yeah…" the scout said.

Aaron then went downstairs and approached Daryl, who was waiting in the middle of the street.

"I'll go home, I'm starting to feel little tired."

"Sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Aaron smiled shyly, "don't worry, I'll be fine."

"Gonna stay here for a while," the archer said then.

Again his friend offered him a look Daryl couldn't figure out. Then he watched Aaron as he walked up the street toward his house, and closed the door behind him. The archer came up the stairs, where Jesus was still standing, and the two sat together, as he had done with Aaron a few seconds earlier. After he acclimated himself, Daryl pulled out his pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and lit one.

"Are we going to turn this into a ritual or something?" the scout asked.

"It depends if you're ok with smoking tobacco."

"Still have some grass… come on! Admit you liked it."

"Never…"

Suddenly Jesus bent over him, and Daryl leaned back, taken aback by the proximity of another man.

"What…"

"I'm smelling _berries_?"

"Pfff shut up… and it's mint, you asshole."

The two men laughed quietly, and stayed silent for a while, watching the blanket of stars blossom overhead, as the archer savored his cigarette.

"We try to control everything, but in the end, we're completely insignificant," the scout said.

Daryl nodded, agreeing with him, then fixed his blue eyes on the night sky.

"Once, when I was a kid, I spent more than a week lost, living alone in the woods," he said calmly, as if it was something completely normal to say. "In the evenings I liked to find open spaces. I should've been afraid, but looking all those lights reassured me somehow."

By the look Jesus had in his face, it was obvious that the scout only listened to the first part of the brief anecdote.

"You were lost in the woods? How old were you?"

"I don't know, ten, eleven… don't remember… come on! Stop looking at me like that! The only downside of it all was the itchy ass, I spent nine days wiping my ass with poison oak, and I was afraid I would start a wildfire if I farted." Jesus made a face. "Oh, sorry, I'm being _too_ vulgar for you?"

"Fuck off…" then the scout went thoughtful for a few seconds, until he spoke again: "No one went looking for you? Shit, you were just a kid…"

"My old man was off somewhere fuckin' a waitress, I think, and my brother had been locked up again in juvie. Nobody knew and nobody gave a shit," he said, blowing the smoke from his cigarette. "Anyway, I'm sure you also have some stories to tell."

The scout was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed somewhere far away, and Daryl thought he saw him shrug before he spoke again.

"Just silly stories, typical of teenagers…"

His voice sounded soft and distracted, but Daryl had the feeling that he was not being entirely honest, there have to be something more than just _silly and typical teenage stories_ , but the scout didn't seem willing to delve deeper into the subject, and he asked no more questions.

Jesus then waved his hand in the air, motioning him to pass the cigarette he still held between his fingers.

"You can't tell me _this_ is better," he said after taking a deep drag.

"Not saying it is, but it's what I have."

"I think I may actually miss it," Jesus looked at the cigarette, and then passed it back to the archer. "I'm going tomorrow morning" he said as he crossed his arms over his knees, "guess I should go inside and get some sleep."

"You're leaving?" Daryl asked, not realizing he had raised his voice.

"Yeah, there's a lot to do, and four weeks can fly right by," the scout rubbed his face and suddenly he looked a lot more tired than he had just a few seconds ago. "I don't know how I'm going to plan all this without Gregory finding out."

"Not going to tell him?"

"No."

Daryl made a rough sound with his throat. "Don't understand why you leave him in charge?"

"There're people who appreciate what he does, and the truth is that it is much easier for him to be the visible head."

"Wouldn't be better if you were the leader?"

"I've got no leadership skills, and they need someone who doesn't spend half of his time outside. They need a person who's there with them."

"Maggie could, if she wanted," Daryl said suddenly. "Deanna saw something in her, and Rick did as well. She's strong and knows how to make decisions. But above all, she's a great woman, and cares about people," he paused, eyes went sad. "Besides, I know she won't come back here, she hasn't told me, but I've seen it in her eyes. She won't leave Glenn."

"People would respect her, agree with that, but it's a big responsibility and we shouldn't think about those things now. Gregory is still there, and it will be difficult to wrestle the position from him. Believe it or not, there are people who support him. Anyway, I'm among those who think that time puts everything in place, so whatever has to be, will be," he said, and then stood up. "I'm going to lie down for a bit. Guess I'll see you in four weeks…"

"Yeah, if you don't get killed before that," the archer hissed at him. "This plan of yours… is fuckin' stupid, you know it."

"Daryl… have some faith in me," the scout said, giving him a slight knock in his shoulder, then he headed to the door. "Don't miss me too much."

* * *

When Daryl came into the kitchen the next morning, Aaron was already working, in fact it had been the smell of freshly cooked eggs that had lured him out of bed, even so he had spent much of the night awake. Before going down, he'd glanced out the window and he glimpsed Paul's 4x4, down the street, parked outside Rick's house.

"I've prepared some left over pasta, for him, for the trip," Aaron said. Daryl blinked at him and cocked an eyebrow, like he didn't understood what he was saying. "Just peace offering."

"No need to keep showing you're sorry, Aaron," the archer said, approaching the kitchen window to check, again, the car hadn't moved.

"You should eat something, too."

"I'm not hungry."

"Daryl, it's a long journey."

The archer turned to look at the another man, again confused by his words, thinking it was too early for enigmatic phrases.

"I'll be fine…" Aaron continued, "and you have important things to do."

Aaron approached Daryl, who hadn't move from the window and handed him a plastic Tupperware. The archer looked at him with a frown.

"Come on, Daryl! Here we have Rick, Michonne, Father Gabriel, Abraham, Sasha… and even if I'm not at my best, I'm also ready to lend a hand. Who's there? From what I've heard he's alone. They need help. _He_ needs help."

"There's also Rosita and Tara… and well, Eugene too, but I guess that doesn't count for much."

"Stop playing dumb, I know you want to go, and your help will do them well. So take the damn food and go. There's enough for both of you."

When he was a few feet away from the 4x4, Daryl saw Michonne entering the house. Paul was behind the car, next to the trunk, putting some things in there. Weapons, he noted as he took a look.

"Good Morning!" the scout said, as soon as he saw him, "I thought you weren't coming to say goodbye."

"Didn't come to say goodbye."

"No?"

"See a lot weapons and ammo in there…"

"Yes, we should take our time, but they need learn how to use them, at least to ensure that they won't shoot themselves in the foot, or worse, one of us."

"It's dangerous to travel with all this."

"True, I know some alternative routes, no towns nearby, so I hope that's enough to avoid them. What's that?" he asked pointing the Tupperware in his hands.

"Ah…yeah, a bit of food Aaron sent for you, for the trip. He still feels a bit guilty."

"Oh, well, I appreciate it, but he didn't have to bother. Water under the bridge."

"Yeah, I told him that." Daryl looked at the door from Rick's house, hoping no one emerges, at least for a minute. Then he turned to look at the scout who was still organizing the trunk. "I've been thinking that uh… I should go with you," Paul turned quickly to look at him, raising his eyebrows with surprise. "I mean, I want to see how Maggie is doing, and I'm sure you need help, I can teach them how to track and how to use these weapons and uh… also someone has to remove the stitches, we don't have a doctor here and Rosita is also there. And fuck… someone has to make sure you don't get stripped in the middle of the road."

In that moment Rick was resting one foot on the steps of the porch, and Michonne peeked out the door. Both stopped, and stayed there with the confusion written all over their faces. Daryl cleared his throat and scratched his neck, "Was saying that I'll go with him," he said as if it was an unimportant thing.

"To Hilltop?" Rick asked, head cocked to one side, interrogative.

"Yes. They need help, and you have plenty of people here."

Both Michonne and Rick went down the steps and approached them.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Rick didn't seem particularly excited about the news, but at heart he was aware that Hilltop needed more people able to train and show them how to fight.

"Okay, yeah… I guess it's the logical thing to do."

"Course. I'll go get my things."

About half an hour later they were waiting in front of Alexandria's gates. Rick was standing beside the car, the rest of the people over the platforms, guarding their departure, making sure nothing got in their way.

"Be careful," the sheriff said, bent down, looking through the car window. "We'll try to let you know if something goes wrong."

"We'll do the same," Paul replied.

"Give Maggie and the rest a hug from us. If there's no change of plans and nothing happens before the set date, we'll see you all in four weeks."

"See you in four weeks," Daryl said.

Then the car started moving and sped away from Alexandria, until it became an imperceptible point in the distance.


	14. Chapter 14

The alternative route would take them at least six more hours of travel before they reach Hilltop. A way back home through secondary roads that would help them to avoid large and small cities, and hopefully, a new meeting with the saviors. Having in mind those extra hours, the two of them had agreed to make a stop to rest and hide, during the night. That way they also would ensure no one was following them.

A couple of hours before sunset, when the shadows become larger and the light changes to an orange tone, they spotted a small and lonely farm, located on top of a hill. They had to divert from the road they were following, but they thought this could be a good place to hunker down for the night hours.

The farm had a wooden fence surrounding the whole area. They parked the car between the home, a narrow house, with two floors and a small porch at the entrance, and the barn. Then they got out to take a look around. They walked carefully among the neglected grass that had grown out of control. They knew they should be careful, because sometimes it was hard to guess what might be hidden under that green blanket.

"Look at that," Daryl said, suddenly.

The archer had pointed at a bulge, a few meters away from them, half hidden in the grass. The persistent buzz of flies flitting all around it, and the intense smell, made it clear that it was a corpse. The two men approached it cautiously, and discovered the remains of bones and rotten and dried meat, of a horse. They had barely time to feel sorry for the poor animal, as they soon heard the sharp cries of walkers. There were three, and came out from behind the barn. Paul stepped forward, ready to finish them off, but Daryl grabbed his arm to stop him.

"Let me do it," he said, without looking away from the three beings approaching them with slow and awkward steps.

Paul looked at the archer, ready to protest, but he immediately understood what he was trying to do. He guessed that Daryl's mind was put in the inevitable incoming war, which was, otherwise, completely understandable, and it was obvious to him that the archer was aware that he still was not in the best physical conditions to fight. He needed to feel the confidence he'd had weeks ago. He needed to feel useful, again. Paul was no fool, he knew Daryl was a very important value for them in this struggle, but he also knew it was necessary for the archer to understand that, despite the injuries, he still was the same person as he was before. So Paul stepped back, letting the other man do the job, and kill walkers.

Daryl took a deep breath and pulled out the knife he had picked up in Alexandria, holding it with his right hand. Paul watched him closely, and he couldn't help but draw one of his own knives, _just in case_ , he told himself. The archer watched the three walkers, two men and a woman, for a few seconds. Then he placed his left hand on his injured shoulder, as if he needed to make sure everything was in place, and pressed his other hand around the knife's handle even harder. From where he stood, Paul could see how his knuckles turned white by the pressure he was exerting. Daryl then raised his arm slightly, and closed his eyes. He was hesitating, the scout could tell he wasn't sure, and the walkers were getting closer to him, with their piercing howls rending the air with more intensity with each passing second. Paul wanted to approach him and help him, but he knew it was better to let him take control of the situation.

The archer opened his eyes again and stepped back, like he hadn't realized the walkers were just a few feet from where he was standing. He sighed deeply, and finally changed the knife to the other hand, and brandished it over their heads, ending their lives.

Paul watched Daryl from a distance, the archer stood motionless, looking the three bodies with concern. Despite having been able to kill them without much difficulty, his breathing had quickened, and his muscles had tensed.

"Does it hurt you?" Paul asked.

Daryl shook his head, "No, no," he said in his hoarse voice,"just afraid the pain might flare up again, and seize up like it did back in the rice factory."

"You'll get better, Daryl" Paul said gently, approaching him. "I'm sure that as soon as we get back to Hilltop, Harlan will remove the stitches, and Alex can help you with your rehabilitation."

The archer let out a slight laugh. "No fuckin' way, he's not getting near me; that man hates me."

Paul smiled slightly, "let's take look at the barn."

Daryl turned to face him, then nodded. Then the two walked over the sliding entrance doors of the barn, each standing at both ends, with their weapons ready to defend themselves if necessary. Paul nodded to the archer, and then hit the red wooden doors. They waited, as they had done on so many occasions, waiting for that familiar sound, but there was only silence. They both looked at each other, and the scout made a gesture with his head again, indicating that it was the moment to open the doors. Each grabbed one of the handles, and slid the tall blades sideways. The intense stench coming from inside, hit them like an invisible punch, a mixture of musty smell, cattle, feces and death.

"Fuck!" Paul quickly covered his face with the bandana hanging from his neck.

What they saw when they came in was heartbreaking. The livestock dead in their pens. Goats, cows and horses, consumed by hunger, were now lying as desiccated mummies. Paul took a deep breath through the cloth covering his face, and thought about the fear and bewilderment those poor animals may have suffered, as they waited, unknowingly, a inevitable death.

"You're good?"

Paul didn't realize he had been standing in the middle of the barn, looking around, sadness in his eyes. "Yeah—guess this is a good place to hide the car," he said, and then went outside.

After hiding the 4x4, they went to check the house. First they knocked the door, just like they had done in the barn, and after waiting and not hearing anything, they entered. There was not much to see there, though. Right in front of the entrance was a stairway leading upstairs, and at first sight they could see three rooms on the ground floor, to the right was the kitchen, in front of it and to the left, was the living room, in the hallway was a bathroom, and at the back was another door leading to what they thought may be the basement.

"Take a look around here, I'll look upstairs," Paul said.

The scout left Daryl to inspect the ground floor, and headed upstairs. The first thing he found was the bathroom; it was not very big but had enough space for a good-sized bath. He cast an eye to the medicine cabinet, hidden behind the mirror, and found some medicine bottles, razors and worn toothbrushes. When he left the bathroom, went straight to the room to the left. It looked like it had belonged to a girl, the walls were covered with pink striped wallpaper, and over the flowered bedspread, there were a few stacked dolls. He walked past a small desk and looked at the books. Then he went to the small cabinet beside the window, and opened it. All her clothes were there, dresses, shirts and pants. He deduced that the girl would have been around ten or eleven years old, and wished that her absence just meant that she had managed to escape and take shelter in a better place.

After leaving the girl's room, he went down the hall to the main room of the house. Just as he entered he saw the bed, not too big for a double bed. He then walked toward the dresser; there were some framed photographs. He grabbed one of them, an old photograph, and met with the glances and smiles from those who once had lived in that house. In the picture were a woman, with her hair up in a bun and a long print dress, and a man, tall, long hair and thick mustache. He was wearing a plaid shirt and bell-bottoms trousers. He put that picture down and took another one, and met with the big blue eyes of a young girl. He was right, she was about eleven, and she had long straight black hair that fell to her hips. Paul left the picture back on the dresser, and walked over to the closet and yanked it open, taking a look at the clothes, as he listened to Daryl's heavy footsteps coming up the stairs.

"Nothing down there," he said, as he peered through the door. "What are you doing?"

"We could take the clothes, they would suit someone. Look, this is perfect for you," he said pulling out a flannel shirt with the ugliest check print he had ever seen.

"Fuck you."

Paul smiled, because despite his words, not even Daryl bothered to pretend he was offended.

"I'm gonna take a look down at the basement," Paul said, "do you want to go to the car and get the backpack?"

The two men went back to the main floor, and while Daryl went out to get the backpack and food, Paul went to the basement. The access stairs were narrow and steep, and there was little light, so he reached for the small flashlight he used to carry in the car. An unusual coldness besieged him as he came down, he also noticed a strange smell, but he could barely stand to think about it, because what he saw there left him completely speechless. Amid the basement were several aligned shelves full of food, but this was not just a simple pantry, this was the storeroom of a deranged mind waiting, helplessly, for some kind of global crisis. The selves were filled with canned food stacked carefully, countless packs of sanitary equipment, batteries, gasoline cans, tools of all kinds, drinks… there were even gas masks.

"What the fu–"

Then something happened, too fast for the scout to saw it coming. First there was a cry, but not a human cry, and then something grabbed him from behind. Paul released himself as quickly as he could, scared, and turned away crashing into one of the shelves. In a dark corner he saw coming out a walker, stretching his arms forward, like an animal, pouncing at him until he couldn't move further, like something was restraining him. Paul looked at him as he tried to calm down and catch his breath back. He noticed that the being had a rope around his neck. He realized, the walker was bobbing in the air, trying to grab him desperately, and get out the trap, he got himself into. Then Paul looked at his face, the long hair and the hairs that still framed his upper lip. He was the owner of the house; he had no doubt about it. Paul took a deep breath, and without waiting any more seconds, stabbed his sharp knife into his skull, filling the basement with a sudden and deafening silence.

"What happened?"

Paul jumped as soon as he heard Daryl's voice behind him, "Fuck! Didn't hear you coming—he appeared out of nowhere," he said, still with a broken voice.

The archer watched the man, "it's ironic, right? You came here lookin' for death and this is what you find."

"Yeah… anyway. Look at this," he said pointing to the shelves, "this man had to suffer some kind of survivalist obsession."

"No shit—either that, or he knew somethin' the rest of us didn't," Daryl said, looking at the shelves, full of supplies. "He must've spent years storin' all this."

"Well, I guess we should be thankful for his madness."

Once back upstairs, Daryl informed Paul the house had a gas stove, so after finding a pan clean enough to heat up the food Aaron had given them, Paul stirred the pasta in the fire, as Daryl looked for some dishes and candles to illuminate their rudimentary dinner, and Paul suddenly remembered all those times he had cooked for Benjamin, when he was home.

 _"That smells good," he heard Ben's voice behind him._

 _Paul turned to greet him, a smile on his face, and he offered Ben the spoon to try a little, when he approached him._

 _"Mmm… tastes even better than it smells, what is it?"_

 _"A recipe I saw on TV this morning."_

 _"You watch too much television when you're home…" Ben said, as he gently tucked a piece of hair behind Paul's ear._

 _"I have to do something, so I don't spend my time missing you."_

 _"Ha! Go sell that fallacy to someone who doesn't know you, Monroe."_

 _The two men laughed with complicity, and Paul leaned slightly to lay his lips on Ben's._

 _"It's burning," a strange voice said, suddenly._

 _"Huh?"_

"The food's burnin'."

Daryl's voice broke into his thoughts, returning him abruptly to reality, and Paul watched, with confusion reflected in every little wrinkle of his face, as the archer took the pan off his hands and the fire.

"What's wrong man?" Daryl asked with a frown.

"Sorry…" Paul said, and then left the kitchen, looking for some fresh air, as felt the archer's eyes fixed on him.

 _"It was delicious," Benjamin said as he wiped his mouth. "I'll let you watch all the TV you want, if you keep cooking like this."_

 _"That doesn't sound self-interested at all…"_

 _Ben offered him a funny face, and then rose from the table to pick up the dishes. "I'm gonna feed Emmes—do you want dessert?" he asked._

 _But the ringing of Paul's work phone interrupted the conversation. Ben turned to offer him a quizzical look._

 _"No, not now, Paul."_

 _"It may be urgent."_

 _"Paul, you're a pharmaceutical sales rep, what may be so important, at exactly…" he said looking at his watch "twenty-three past nine, that can't wait till the morning."_

 _Paul shrugged off Ben's frustration, who left the living room with a grunt, and went to the kitchen. Meanwhile Paul answered the persistent call that made the phone vibrate with an irritating buzz. The conversation was short, and Paul simply said hello, listened to whatever he was being told and hung up._

 _"When?" Ben asked, standing by the doorway._

 _"First thing tomorrow."_

 _"Fuck…"_

 _"Ben–"_

 _"You came back two days ago."_

 _"I know, but it'll only be a week, it's–"_

 _"It was gonna be a week the last time, and you were out for a month!"_

 _"Listen–"_

 _"No, dammit! Paul, I'm tired! Sometimes it looks like you work for the fucking FBI instead of a pharmaceutical company."_

 _"You know how this goes, the companies work on new formulas, and are very strict with their confidentiality agreements."_

 _"And the conventions? My partner Barbara, her husband is a doctor and she accompanies him to all conventions. You haven't fucking asked me once!"_

 _"Come on Ben, they're boring…"_

 _"Do they know you're gay?"_

 _"What?"_

 _"It's because you're ashamed to be seen with your boyfriend."_

 _"Ben that's bullshit! You know that's not true—why are you telling me this now?"_

 _"Because I don't understand it, Paul. I try to look the other way, but don't think just because I turn a blind eye, I don't see there's something you're not telling me."_

 _Paul approached Benjamin and placed his hands over his face, "a week, okay? Just a week, and I'll ask them for holidays. They own me."_

 _Benjamin closed his eyes and breathed deeply. "Okay… I'll pretend I believe you. But you're sleeping on the couch, tonight."_

"You gonna make my brain explode if you keep talking," Daryl said after taking a great portion of pasta into his mouth.

Paul looked up from his plate, distracted, "thought you hated my lectures."

"As much as Rick's bad musical taste, but we're straight into a war, and not hearing your noisy voice, worries me a little."

"I'm just tired."

"Yeah—gonna pretend I believe you," he said, then he got up from the table.

For a second Paul felt his heart cringed in his chest, "what did you say?"

"Whatever, man."

A while later the two men were in the living room, Daryl lying on the couch, with a beer in hand, he had taken from a pack he found in the tiny kitchen's pantry, while Paul cast a glance at the vinyls stacked on a shelf next to the TV cabinet. They had covered all the windows in the room with some blankets, with the intention of leaving on one of the candles to light, albeit timidly, the small room.

"Supertramp, Dire Straits, Pink Floyd… Wow, this guy has a great collection. You like any of this?"

"Huh?" Daryl answered, like he hadn't been listening.

"You complained about Rick's musical taste, what do you like?"

He shrugged "I don't listen to music."

"Come on! Everyone listens to music, or at least we used to."

"Not me."

"Really? You didn't have any favorite band?"

"Nah."

"Damn, you're boring," Paul said, pushing the archer's legs aside and sitting on the other end of the couch, as he fixed his gaze over the beer Daryl was taking to his lips.

"Sorry, there was only one, and you drive."

"So generous…"

Daryl made a face, but immediately afterwards he moved a hand, and from one side of the sofa he took a can of beer and threw it to the scout. Paul caught it in the air, but when he opened the can, the liquid came out with a whoosh, spilling most on the beer on the floor, and his hands. Daryl let out a laugh.

"Asshole…"

"Was you who said I should laugh more often."

"Not at my expense…"

But the scout laughed, too, because he was pleased to see the archer in a much more relaxed and open attitude. Very different from the defensive armor he used to show himself to the world.

"I think I'll spend the night here," the scout said, "up I feel like we're invading their space."

"Yeah, me too."

Paul smiled to himself, "We don't want to sleep upstairs out of respect, but tomorrow we're going to plunder them shamelessly. The irony."

"That' what survival is about."

"Yeah… Speaking of, did you take care of your dressings?"

"Aaron changed them yesterday, why? Did you want to touch me up again, Monroe?"

"Wow, _Monroe_ , this is getting serious, but I'm sorry to inform you, Dixon, that you're not my type."

"I'm not too soft and manageable for you?"

"You're a jerk—and you're very wrong if that's how you see Alex."

"Have you been with someone else besides him?"

"Why the interest?"

Daryl shrugged, making a face, "don't want to talk about Negan, and that's the first stupid thing that crossed my mind."

"You think my love life's stupid?" Paul pretended to act offended, but then said: "I haven't had with anyone, what I had with Alex, but um… I had a silly night with someone from the Kingdom, once"

"The weed guy?"

There was something about the way the archer asked the question, that made him feel curious, but at the same time, upset him. Paul recalled Daryl's reservation when he mentioned the high cost of the grass, when they were in the tower's school back at The Kingdom.

"What's your problem? Are you jealous or what?" that might have sound as a funny question, if it hadn't been for the tough tone that Paul had used.

"Nah—You're not my type, either."

Paul raised his eyebrows, "so you have a _type_ —this is getting interesting," Paul crossed his arms. "Come on, tell me…"

"No."

"Then, I'll guess."

"No."

Paul put a finger on his lips, as he was really thinking about it, "Let's see…"

"Cut that shit out!" Daryl said, toughening his tone suddenly.

"I see—you can make insinuations about me, but I can't say anything about you."

The scout noticed immediately Daryl's change of mood. In fact, the arched left his relaxed position, and sat up straighter, against the couch's back. Then he stared at the can he held in his hands, and began to play with it with his fingers.

"I promised to get him a heat lamp the next time I went out on a run," Paul said.

"No need to explain, it's none of my business."

"Of course is not, but you thought of it, and I don't like that."

Suddenly, silence surrounded them as an unwanted guest, and the tension grew between the two, as intense as palpable. Paul felt an unexpected pressure in his chest, and he didn't know why. He probably would've joked about if he had been with someone else, but for some reason, it hurt him that the archer thought he was able to go around, having sex with whoever crossed his path, and much worse, in order to get something in return. He had to put up with the stigma of promiscuity much of his life. Because society wasn't just unprepared to accept that a man could love another man, but never bothered to try to understand it. So the vice, was the only justification for such transgression.

"Never had a serious relationship with anyone." Daryl said, suddenly, "just one-night stands with women who used to know my brother somehow, and that's not sayin' much good about them. Junkies, whores… in fact my first time was with one. My brother paid for it, as a birthday present. I was turning fifteen," the archer said and then sighed. "So, guess I don't have a type."

Daryl's sudden, and unexpected, confession, had caught him off guard, but Paul listened to him intently. The archer's short story had left his lips with a soft wire, but he hadn't distinguished regret or shame in his words, just tedium. A man who was tired of projecting an expected image of himself, that didn't reflect who he really was as a person, at all.

"Your brother was gem."

Daryl nodded thoughtfully, "he was the only one who cared about me. I feel like, despite everything, I can't be mad at him."

"You deserved better."

"Why? Who decides that? I took what I could get, no more, no less."

"You deserved something better, anyway," Paul paused briefly, keeping his eyes wide. Then he asked, "You never fell in love with a woman?"

"No," the archer replied sparingly.

"And with a man?"

The archer turned sharply to nail his eyes on Paul. The scout had asked the question for the sole purpose of watching his reaction, and what he saw was Daryl's expression darkening under the flickering candlelight, that illuminated his face deepening the wrinkles forming on his forehead. The scout looked at him intently, even when he glanced away. And although the archer was trying to hide it, Paul sensed his nervousness, as he clutched the beer, took one last gulp, and then rubbed his nose with a concern hard to ignore.

"No" then he said gravely.

 _"You're lying," Paul said, leaning against the doorway, "You say you're not angry, but it's not true."_

 _"I didn't say I wasn't angry," Ben said, as he moved around the room, "I said that I don't want to argue with you, right now. You're leaving tomorrow, despite my protests, so I won't spend a single minute of my time fighting you. "_

 _"I don't want to argue, either, but I don't want to go like this."_

 _"You'll have to live with it, Paul. Perhaps, by the time you come back, we can sit down and talk. And it's better for you to bring those holidays you talked about, if not I swear I'll put your bags in the door."_

 _"You're not going to do that."_

 _Ben snorted loudly, "Of course not—because despite everything, I love you too fucking much, you damn hippie. But I'm serious, Paul Monroe, you're sleeping on the couch tonight" he took a pillow from the bed and threw it towards him._

 _Paul looked at his phone; it was three thirty-four in the morning, as he sat on the couch, stroking Emmes, who was sleeping peacefully next to him, snoring lightly. He wanted to go upstairs, get in the bed with Ben, hug him and kiss him, and tell him he was sorry. But he was aware that apologies were useless in that moment, and Ben had every right to be tired and annoyed by the whole situation. He was too, and it frustrated him not being able to address the issue as he wanted._

 _With a deep sigh, he rose from the couch and went down to the small gym they had in the basement, and there he discharged all his anger and frustration against a punching bag._

"You know? Sometimes, you remind me of Ben," the scout said, after some quiet time, "He was born in a rural environment, in an overly traditional and conservative family, and grew up with the idea that a man's duty was to marry a woman and a form a family. And that thing about men kissing other men… that was an aberration—a mortal sin," he laughed ruefully. "He had relationships with women. Actually, he told me he had had a relationship with a college friend, for more than a year. But he never felt anything, physically or emotionally, and that provoked such anxiety in him that he ended up falling into a depression. He didn't understand why he couldn't be _normal_. Why he couldn't be like the rest."

Daryl ducked his head as he listened to the story, and Paul continued:

"We met a year after he moved to the city for work. There he had made new friends, people who helped him open his eyes to a world that was there, but he was refusing to look at. He started to understand himself a little more, and he experienced things he wanted, but he didn't dare to try before. He had flings with some men, though he never slept with any of them. His first time was with me, and it was… it was very special."

Paul watched the archer, who couldn't hide, even under the shy orange candlelight, the blush that stained his cheeks.

"I understand how you may be feeling," Paul said softly.

"How can you be so sure when I'm not?"

"Because I've seen it before. It took Ben years to accept himself, but he did it and he finally was able to be happy. Hey…" he said, aware of the archer's growing tension, "I know this is your business and that sometimes it's not easy to take a step forward—but you can talk to me if you want. I know you think I'm a _chatterbox_ , and I don't take anything seriously, but I'm a good listener."

For a moment the two went silent, although the tension of moments ago had disappeared. However, Paul thought that perhaps he had gone too far, and that he couldn't pretend to kick the archer out of the cave he's been enclosed for years. He watched Daryl squeeze, crumpling the beer can, now empty, until it lost its form, and fixed his gaze on the floor.

"There was a guy," he said, to Paul's surprise, "he was my neighbor—he was about four years older than me. We spoke often. We got along well. He liked bikes, just like me. I enjoyed hanging out with him—he had a small workshop in his garage, and he was always doing things, and sometimes we went for rides together. But I started to feel things, my body started to react and woke up when I was near him, and I didn't understand why. And I hated it. I _hated_ myself, because only a sick mind could have those kind of thoughts—that's what I've been told, and I was not like them," the archer paused for breath, as he played with his fingers, and moved his knee up and down nervously. "One day we were in the garage, he wanted to change the spark of his bike and asked me for help. We worked close, _very_ close, I could feel the warmth of his body, the smell of his sweat, and suddenly, don't know why, I saw myself kissing him," Daryl sighed and rubbed his face, "I got a fuckin' boner right there, in front of him. I'm sure he didn't notice, though, because I ran out of there, straight to my home, and locked myself in the bathroom, pants and shorts down, and I put a bag of frozen fuckin' peas on my dick. It hurt so fuckin' much that I cried like a baby. Even think I gave myself frostbite. But that couldn't happen again—it was wrong. I wasn't a fag. Never saw him again."

Daryl's voice trembled with those last words, and Paul felt a lump in his throat. He wanted to get close to him and make him understand that this was part of the past. But he couldn't find the courage to do so.

"When I asked if you missed what we left behind, you said you didn't know. Now, I'm listening to you and, frankly, I don't understand," Paul said.

"Guess I never lost hope of having a normal life, whatever that was," Daryl took a deep breath. "What about you? You said you didn't miss it, when you had the perfect life."

Paul drew a bitter smile, "that's what everyone used to say, that we were the perfect couple, with the perfect life and perfect jobs. We earned a fair amount of money, and were able to buy the _perfect_ house, in one of the most _perfect_ neighborhoods in Washington."

"You lived in Washington?"

"Yeah… he was financial advisor and I worked as a pharmaceutical rep," Daryl made a sound with his mouth, like he just remembered the conversation they had at the pharmacy, a few days ago. "And it's true, everything would have been perfect if not for the fact that everything was a fucking lie. I didn't work for any pharmaceutical company—I worked for the CIA."

Daryl face wrinkled with confusion, he opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again. He even drew a little smile, and then hissed, sounding something like a laugh, like he assumed that Paul was just kidding.

"Really?"

 _Paul opened the brown folder over the glass table, in front of him. He saw a photograph taken with telephoto lens from a great distance. The man's face drew with difficulty under the image noise._

 _"Was taken a couple of weeks ago," the man in a suit said, moving in front of him. "In Morocco, they've been following him and it looks like he has a property there. He doesn't use any personal phone inside or outside, that's the reason it has been so difficult to track him. But that photo is the proof we needed. We got him."_

 _"Morocco?" Paul asked._

 _"The flight leaves in two hours."_

"I spent five years living with a person who hadn't the foggiest idea who I really was. When I was home, I tried to make everything as normal as possible, although I spent most of the time Ben was out working, reading whatever shit I could find related to drugs or pharmaceutical companies in order to have something to talk about. But it was not easy, Ben wasn't an idiot, and you can't spend five years lying constantly, without the other person realizing that something's wrong."

 _"Hello?"_

 _"Ben…"_

 _"Paul? What's that noise? Where are you calling me from?"_

 _"A phone booth."_

 _"Why?"_

 _"My cell run out of battery."_

 _"Didn't you have a phone in your room?"_

 _Paul snorted, putting away the handset, as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Hey, is everything okay?"_

 _"Yeah, as usual. You know, Martha and Jaime are going to have a baby; we got the news yesterday, at dinner. They planned it thinking that you would be back two days ago, but…"_

 _"Yeah… I'm sorry."_

 _"Isn't it great?"_

 _"Yeah, yes it is. I'm really happy for them."_

 _On the other side he could hear Ben sigh, "When?"_

 _"I don't know, Ben," he said, rubbing his face, tired "don't want to give you another date just for plans to end up changing again."_

 _Then he heard Emmes barking in the background._

 _"Emmes says hello. By the way, don't know what has gotten to him, but he has decided to use your Doors' shirt as a bed."_

 _"And I'm sure you haven't done anything to stop him."_

 _"Whatever makes our dog happy."_

 _"Hey, I'll have to hang up, but listen Ben, I promise…"_

 _"No more dates, Paul."_

 _"No, it's not that—we're going to talk, I promise you that when I get back, we're going to sit down and talk, okay? And I'll explain everything to you."_

"Ever thought about telling him?" Daryl asked.

"There was a time he thought I was seeing someone else," Paul said, letting out a slight laugh, but the smile faded quickly. "Yes, I thought about it many times, but never did. I was afraid of how he could react, that he could look at me like he suddenly realized that he was living with a stranger. But on the last trip I decided it was about time, I couldn't wait anymore. I had to do it for him, and for me."

 _Paul looked up from the newspaper he was pretending to be reading; when he noticed someone settling at the same table he was sat in._

 _"What are you doing here?" He asked Donald, one of his colleagues._

 _"How you doing?"_

 _"The guy sat in the bar? behind me, orange striped shirt, short hair, khaki pants, and brown sandals."_

 _Donald glanced behind him. "Yes… are you after him because of his bad fashion sense?"_

 _"It's an informer, I've been after him for four days. Still can't prove anything, but I'm absolutely convinced."_

 _"That's great, but I think that maybe you should slow down a little."_

 _"Why, you know something about him?"_

 _"Him? Nah, but I heard other things," he said, leaning forward and lowering his voice, "I have a colleague working in the Department of Defense—something is going on, Monroe, and I think they will suspend all services, and send us back home. "_

 _"Explain yourself."_

 _"I can't tell you much, really, have you heard about the virus affecting India? Apparently the issue is more serious than it seems," then looked at his watch. "Hey, I gotta go, see you later, okay?"_

 _That night Paul was looking through the window at the yellow lights illuminating the adobe buildings, with one hand rubbing his face, and the other holding the phone._

 _"Have you heard the news?" Ben asked from the other side of the line._

 _"Yeah, I heard something, but I'm sure it's nothing important. It's happened other times; they scare us, and suddenly nobody talks about it again."_

 _"Sure, because when the deaths start happening in the first world, then your colleagues develop a vaccine out of no where, and problem solved. But the truth is that people are starting to panic. Today, in the supermarket… was crazy. "_

 _"Don't worry, this will end soon."_

"What happened then?"

"Well, the chaos started. You lived that too _."_

 _"Fuck, Paul, when're you coming back?"_

 _"I'm working on it, hope in a couple of days I can give you a date. Listen, you just—stay calm, okay?"_

 _He heard Ben sigh over the handset. "I don't know what to do, here everybody is packing their shit to go away."_

 _"Where?"_

 _"I don't know! But I'm starting to think I should do the same."_

 _"Ben, calm down! Trust me, stay home, I'll call you again as soon as I can."_

"No one told you what was going on?"

"No, they just said we had to suspend all activities, and wait confined until further notice."

 _"I talked to my friend, but no one says anything, just that the information is confidential," Donald said, visibly angry._

 _In one of the safehouse's rooms, the six members of the team crowded together, surrounded by suitcases._

 _"Confidential? And who the fuck are we working for!" Paul said irritated._

 _Samantha, the only woman among them, snorted, "I don't care any more. It's enough that they've got a plane to take us out of here. Have you seen the news? Airports are crowded with hysterical people, and not a single flight is leaving."_

 _"I think they have no fucking idea what's going on," Arthur, the youngest member of the six, said, "yesterday, managed to get some Internet and saw a video, real video, and guys—fuck! What the hell is that! Sure they don't know it either, that's why they say it's confidential,_ _'cause they don't have any fucking idea of what else to say!"_

 _Paul got up from the bed he was sitting at, and began to move around the room with the phone glued to his ear. The lines had been completely saturated, and he had tried to call Ben on numerous occasions during the past few days, with no much success._

 _"Hello?" a voice replied hurriedly._

 _"Shit! Ben?"_

 _"Paul!"_

 _"Are you okay?"_

 _"Paul?"_

 _"Ben, do you hear me?"_

 _"Not very well."_

 _"Stay where you are, okay?"_

 _"Fucking hell, Paul, there're soldiers all over the place, some people were able to leave, but they had threatened the rest of us to stay home."_

 _The line seemed to cut at times, and Paul started to lose his temper. "I know, listen, don't move from there, okay? I'm taking a plane in a couple of hours, I'm going home… Ben?"_

 _On the other side he could hear Ben moving around and Emmes barking desperately in the background._

 _"Ben?"_

 _"Yes, I'm here—I'll wait. I'll wait here. I'll wait for you."_

 _Paul felt his breath quicken, trying to catch the air that caught in his throat and couldn't get to his lungs. "See you soon—I love you…" But he could only hear white noise blared from the device. "Ben?… Ben?" He waited, but no answer "Fuck!"_

"I will never forget the look of all of those at the airport. Their desperation and panic. Old people, women, men… children. We walked in front of all of them, without looking at their faces, knowing that we were leaving them there," Paul laughed sarcastically, "somewhere in our subconscious, we really thought that we were going to a safer place, even after speaking with Ben over the phone, and _knowing_ that everything was the same everywhere."

Daryl listened to the story carefully, "Were you able to get home?"

"Yeah."

"What happened?"

"Nothing. Ben was already dead."

After all the words, and all the expressed feelings, his voice sounded too cold for what he just had said. Paul saw Daryl frown and look away.

"In that moment," the scout continued, lowering his voice to a whisper, "I realized all the mistakes I'd made, and all the lost opportunities to have that _perfect_ life, everyone kept talking about," He rubbed his eyes. "And… I also thought that maybe, if he hadn't stayed there, waiting, perhaps he would be alive now."

"Come on! You don't know that. And he stayed because he loved you."

Paul nodded sadly. "You're probably thinking this is silly, of course I'm not comparing this with what you have had to live."

"No, I don't," the arched said softly. "We've all suffered, in one way or another."

"Yeah."

A few minutes passed until Paul sighed and shrugged his shoulders slightly. "I miss him. I miss him _so_ much. But I don't miss what we had," he paused and then leaned against the couch. "I guess that could work for a short answer."

There was silence for a moment.

"Well—you can be yourself now," Daryl said softly.

"That's exactly the point, Daryl—and I hope you realize you can be yourself too."

Daryl nodded, and smiled shyly, and Paul responded bending the corners of his lips. And suddenly he felt relieved, because for the first time, in many years, he had finally gotten that damn weight off his shoulders, and he hoped the man sitting beside him could do the same.


	15. Chapter 15

There was a sound, an insistent and repetitive beat—almost rhythmic. For a moment Daryl was not sure if it was inside his head or if it was actually something real. He should open his eyes and check what it was, but for once he felt relaxed, even unconcerned of what was going on around him—until he remembered where he was, in the small farm house, with a man hanging from a beam in the basement. He was sure there was no one else in there, he checked it himself, but he might've been wrong. Then he realized that something, or _someone_ , was missing.

He opened his eyes suddenly and sat up straight. Paul was not there, leaning back at the other end of the couch, as he remembered having seen him the last time before his brain decided to disconnect from reality without his permission. And there was the sound, it was like a heavy drop falling again and again, and it was real, very real. He looked around, the blankets still covering the windows, but there was enough light for him to realize that it's been some time since dawn.

He got up and walked with careful steps out of the living room, the cracking sound of the wood accompanied him as he glanced into the hallway—nothing was in sight, just the dust dancing in the air, visible through the rays of light coming from the other rooms' windows. He then looked into the kitchen, the sound still chiming in the background—he thought of a door opening and closing constantly—there, standing by the window, was Paul, arms crossed as he watched what was outside.

Daryl rubbed his eyes, still feeling the weight of sleep stuck on his eyelids, "thought I didn't sleep well, but you win," he said, strumming the words through his dry throat.

Paul turned a second to look at him, and then returned his attention to the window. He made a gesture with his head, pointing outside, like he was inviting him to take a look. The archer joined the scout and watched. There were four walkers out there, hitting against the fence surrounding the farm, trying to cross it with no success.

"How far do you think they can smell us?" Paul asked not taking his eyes off them.

"They probably tracked your shampoo," Daryl said with a surprising nonchalance attitude.

"I wonder what nature will do with them—I mean, if they will evolve over time, and develop some kind of consciousness or something…"

"Shit, I hope not."

Paul then turned to face him, watching him for a few seconds before speaking, "how did you sleep?"

"Better than you, it seems."

"Someone had to watch this place while you snored like a truck engine."

"What?—No shit."

"Oh yeah, so loud that I thought the house would collapse over our heads."

"Shut up you little hippie, that's bullshit."

"How do you know?"

Daryl didn't answer; he took a step forward and put his eyes out there. He looked at the blue sky and the sun shining high. "What time is it?"

"Don't know, about nine I think."

"Why didntcha wake me up?"

"You were sleeping like a baby, I felt bad—Ready to go?"

A while later they were loading the 4x4's trunk and the rear seats, with all the useful things they've found in the house—including some clothes. And during all that time, Daryl couldn't stop thinking about the night before, the conversation they had, and the confessions full of sincerity they shared. But in that moment, he couldn't help but wonder if he might have spoken more than necessary. He sure felt some relief after accepting how he was feeling, and not just to someone else, but to himself. A person who hadn't been able to show who he really was for fear and shame. But now he was feeling naked—he had given away a part of himself that had remained hidden even to him, and couldn't stop thinking if now Paul would look at his face, or judge him, in a completely different way. He knew that was a silly idea, it was the hippie chatterbox he was talking about after all, but the restlessness that made his heart pump faster than usual, was too real.

"That thing I told you yesterday…" he said after clearing his throat, while pretending he was putting some stuff in the trunk, "hadn't told anyone—ever."

Paul looked at him for a second, and then went back to whatever he was doing in the back seat, "it's none of my business, Daryl, and I won't tell anyone if that's what worries you."

"Ain't that," he knew he wouldn't, "It's uh—never mind, forget it."

The scout stopped what he was doing and came over to him, with that reassuring and friendly look of his, "nothing has changed," he said softly, "you may feel different now, but you're still the same person. More aware and free, maybe, but that's a good thing after all."

After giving him a friendly tap on the shoulder, the scout walked toward the front of the car.

"I should drive," Daryl said.

Paul turned to face him, "why?"

"'Cause you gonna fall asleep and crash us into a tree," before Paul could protest, Daryl went on: "I'm fine, it doesn't hurt me… not much."

The scout watched him intently for a few seconds, like he was trying to scan him with some kind of invisible laser beam, "okay," Daryl raised his eyebrows surprised at his lack of objection, "but if it bothers you, or you feel tired, we'll switch. I'm serious, if I realize that you're not feeling well and you don't tell me—I'll kick your ass out of the car."

They left the farm soon after. Daryl was more used to driving on two wheels, but in that moment he felt a great strength growing inside of him. He was feeling confident, because he wasn't depending on anyone to watch over him or his safety. It was true the hippie chatterbox was sat right next to him, but even he was looking at the maps totally unconcerned, giving him directions and speaking normally, as he had always done. Even his little jokes, which would have irritated him in another time, were comforting.

Hilltop walls appeared on the horizon four hours after their departure. The activity of the community seemed to carry out normally when they passed through the gates, and finally stopped the car not far from Barrington House. The archer's eyes met with Maggie's once he set a foot on the dry ground. The woman was walking alone in that moment, in her cheeks a pink blush rose, giving a new life to her face, and Daryl couldn't help but draw a big smile, the same she gave him when she saw him.

"Daryl!" Maggie came over, walking with a surprising strength and energy, and wrapped her arms around his neck as she approached him. "You're back," she said, relief in her voice, "I thought you were staying there—is everything okay?"

"Things have changed," the archer said frankly. "We bring some news."

Daryl glanced at Paul, who was talking to Crystal—they had turned away and their conversation was barely audible. The archer guessed he was informing the woman about the cargo they were carrying while they thought up the best way to hide everything, without attracting too much attention.

"What's going on?" Maggie asked.

But Maggie's attention was diverted as she noticed Paul approaching them, a warm smile forming across her face again. Maggie reached out and hugged the scout tenderly.

"You look good," Paul said.

"Harlan has removed the stiches, and the baby is growing healthy," she said touching her slightly bulging belly.

"Everything's okay here?"

"Yes, if you had arrived half an hour earlier, you would've seen Tara and Rosita, they went out to take a look at the area; people are claiming to have seen walkers around. Eugene is working with that radio you have in the library, he says he can make it work, and it could be a great alternative to maintain communications between communities. And Enid has gone to grab me a jacket, finally it's begun to cool down."

"What about the rest?" Paul asked, lowering his voice.

"Well, what I've seen during these days is that people here are friendly but very reserved. They take care of their things, without getting too much into others lives, at least that's what it seems. I've been speaking a lot with Brianna, she's a great woman, and has told me some things—apparently they didn't like that Glenn was buried here," Maggie took a deep breath, then looked away, "but apart from that, everything's gone smoothly. Gregory has been seen more these days, but maybe that's the only novelty. Oh! Well yes, there's a new member in the community."

Daryl watched Paul who had raised an eyebrow in bewilderment. Then they followed Maggie's gaze, who was pointing towards Barrington House's stairs, where there was a group of children playing and feeding a light brown cat.

"No fuckin' way…" Daryl said, stepping forward, and looking at Paul, who was watching the animal with wide open eyes.

"It has to be a joke."

A half-smile crept onto Daryl's face, "I told you."

"Have you both seen this cat before?" Maggie asked, watching the two men not understanding what was going on.

"Maybe…" Daryl said.

"Well—are you going to tell me about that news you're bringing?"

"Yes, but let's wait for the rest," Paul commented, "meanwhile, I'll help Crystal to take everything out of the car, and find a place where we can talk without being _interrupted_. See you later."

The scout turned away from them and Daryl tried to ignore the quizzical look Maggie was giving him.

"What's going on?" she insisted.

"Trust me, he's right for once. Better not talk 'bout it here."

* * *

The colony was setting for dinner and preparing for the evening, when Maggie, Rosita, Tara, Eugene and Enid, met with Paul and Daryl in Alex's trailer.

"You sure there wasn't a better place than this?" the archer asked softly.

"Lot of things have happened in this trailer that stayed here, believe me."

The archer was barely able to control the blush that rose from his neck to his cheeks. He looked away, and then moved to lean against the small kitchen table, where the rest had settled as best as they could. Maggie sat on an old chair, Tara was standing next to the short corridor leading to the room and the bathroom. Enid and Eugene occupied two chairs, while Rosita sat on the tiny counter. The last one to get inside was Alex, confusion still framing every inch of his face.

Paul had approached Alex once all the material they had brought was stored. Crystal had told him that she would take care of the clothes, while they hid all the weapons in an old broken freezer storage that was in the pantry.

"Are you sure no one will look in here?"

"Absolutely, if there's no food, no one cares."

Alex showed a reserved enthusiasm when he saw him, he was glad to see he had returned back and in one piece, of course, but his timid smile vanished when he heard the archer had come back with him. Paul had told him they brought some important news but they needed a private place to talk about it. He had asked for his permission to use his trailer, and although Alex had responded reluctantly at first, he finally agreed.

"Well, are you gonna tell us what's going on, already?" Rosita asked impatiently.

"Hey… Calm down." Daryl said.

Paul stood up in front of them all, and took a deep breath before speaking. "Okay, I'll go straight to the point. When we spoke back in Alexandria, I told you that Hilltop was already making agreements with other communities, do you remember that?" Paul paused, making sure he saw recognition in their faces, then he continued.

He told them everything about the Kingdom. Who they were, where they were located, and what they could offer, and told them, straightaway, about the agreement they had reached to fight together against the saviors. In the kitchen the tension rose suddenly, breathable in the air, but none of them seemed to be against the idea, at least not for now. There were doubts, of course, but no one wanted to witness how that tyrant took possession of the territory based on bloodshed. And despite the inevitable consequences that situation would bring, they seemed to agree there was no other choice but to stand up and face Negan. All except for Alex, who furrowed his eyebrows, not taking his eyes off Paul.

Daryl intervened once to announce they had found Carol and Morgan in the kingdom, and that they were okay. The news managed to ease the tense and suffocating atmosphere in the trailer.

"How are we going to do all this?" Maggie asked.

"We need to formulate a list," Paul said, "I know these people, and I know in advance some of them who may be not only physically capable, but also wouldn't be opposed to fighting—but not all would agree, and we can't put up signs announcing it, or go around interrogating them. We must be discreet, so let's try not to spread the word; Gregory can't learn about this, and don't doubt for a second that some of these people would run to him, if all of this came to their attention."

Tara sighed, "you're asking for the impossible, then."

Paul laid his eyes on Alex, "You talk to them, Alex, I know they tell you things."

"Yes—and they do it in confidence."

"I'm not asking you air their dirty laundry, just to find out—in a discreet manner—if they would be willing to do it."

"Fight Negan?" Alex asked gravely.

"Yes."

"This is crazy," the nurse said, shaking his head.

"I can also talk to some of them," Paul continued, ignoring Alex's reaction for the moment, "once we have the names, we'll set groups if necessary. I'll tell Gregory we are teaching them to do runs, to take care of themselves out there, follow tracks and face the walkers—we need more people to be able to go out looking for supplies, and be prepared if things go wrong one day. It's not exactly a lie, so that's what I'm going to tell him. This way we also justify why you all are still here," Paul watched their faces in case they showed some kind of reluctance, but he saw nothing. "This can't take us more than two days; we have to begin training them as soon as possible."

"Have you thought that maybe—I don't know, none of them will want to do it?" Alex asked, nervousness evident in his voice.

Paul saw Daryl shift position, impatient, like it was his way to convince himself that this was not the right time to intervene in the conversation, although he really wanted to do.

"I won't force them, Alex, I'll give them a choice, I don't care if we get a group of twenty or just four, but that's better than standing idly, doing nothing while Negan continues to impose his rule as he pleases."

"Okay," Rosita said, jumping down from the counter, "get that list—let's teach these people how to fight, and take down _esos hijos de puta_."

She was the first to leave the trailer, followed by Tara. Eugene stood in front of Paul, "I should go home. We need ammunition. I can make ammunition."

"Really?"

"Affirmative. I have the location and the support."

After Eugene left the trailer, Maggie rose, Enid behind her, "I can try to talk to them, too—maybe not with the men, but women come to chat with me, I guess that's what happens when you're pregnant. Also, I'm sure Brianna could tell me some things."

There were only three people left in the trailer. Daryl was leaning against the kitchen table with his arms crossed, his gaze traveling between Paul and Alex, who ducked his head as he rubbed his eyes, like he was trying to find some sanity in that entire situation. Daryl moved then, walking past them and he left the trailer leaving them alone.

"This is crazy, you have to be aware that," Alex said quickly.

Paul sighed deeply, "of course it's crazy…" he said, "but also necessary."

"You're sending them to a certain death," his voice trembled.

"We will teach them how to fight."

"Paul, four weeks? What do you think they will learn in four weeks?"

"I know it's a very short of time, but—"

"Have you looked at theirs faces? When you come back, after spending weeks out there—do you look at their faces? Perhaps they act like everything is okay because within the walls they feel safe, but every time those gates open, I only see terror in their eyes. I feel it too."

"I know Alex, I'm aware of it, and don't want to see it again, nor in you, or any of them, that's why we're doing this!" Paul said, raising his voice. He sighed, trying to calm down, grabbed a chair and placed it next to Alex, sitting in front of him, and taking his hands in his. "I know this is not going to be easy, I think about it every single second, but tell me, what else can we do? I'm willing to listen to you if you can offer us another solution."

Alex lowered his gaze, tears in his eyes. Paul caressed his knuckles gently aware the nurse was not going to give him an answer.

"It's very important to me to know that you're with us on this."

The assistant raised his head, looking at Paul's eyes for a long time, and simply nodded, unable to formulate the words that would reveal how worried he was—Paul could feel it just by looking at him. Then the scout leaned forward and placed his lips on his forehead, giving him a kiss that tried to be comforting, though he doubted to have achieved the desired effect. When Paul separated from him, the nurse had set his eyes back on the ground.

"Haven't read your letter," he said in a small voice.

Paul felt a twinge of disappointment pinching his chest, though deep down he could understand him.

"I couldn't do it," Alex continued.

"I hope you haven't ripped it up, at least."

Alex smiled with difficulty, and then looked up to lay his eyes on the scout. "No, of course not," then he dropped his shoulders, like he was giving up. "I promise I will try to get as much information as I can."

Paul pressed his hands with gratitude, and then stood up, "I have to go."

After leaving the trailer, Paul went to Barrington House, where he asked for Gregory, who was in the office. He spent more time than he would have liked to explain to his self-appointed boss, the plans he had in mind, but the gray-haired man proved to be surprisingly receptive to the idea. Paul imagined that in Gregory's mind, the idea of having more people prepared, meant having more people ready to protect his ass if necessary. Paul was happy with that if it meant that their leader was not going to poke his nose into the matter.

When he finally went upstairs, with the intention to take a shower, he found Daryl sat in the hallway on a Louis XV style bench—the furniture, with its delicate lines, seemed to be about to crack under the man's weight. The archer, however, didn't look too bothered to be sat with his dirty and dusty clothes on a piece that, in another world, would have cost a few hundred dollars.

As soon as Daryl saw him got up, "All good?"

"If you mean Alex, yes. He's just frightened."

"Can we trust he wont do anything stupid?" the archer asked hoarsely.

"Yes" then Paul looked around to make sure there wasn't curious there. "I've also spoken with Gregory, and right now he's happy with the idea of having more people able to fight within the community."

Daryl nodded. Then he went silent for a while, maybe too long, as he watched into Paul's eyes, "you're tired."

"Yeah, I guess so."

"You should sleep."

"Jeez! Who's the nanny now?"

"Just pointing out the obvious here, there's a lot of work to do, and the last thing these people need is to see their link with Hilltop start raving 'cause of the lack of sleep."

"Now that you mention it—I have read something about that topic."

The archer rolled his eyes, "Course you have…"

"We have two days to organize everything, don't worry, we'll be fine," Paul smiled and said goodbye to him.

After leaving Daryl, Paul entered his room and grabbed some clean clothes. The hot water felt good in his skin, helped him to relax his muscles and, somehow, his mind. Then he returned to the room, but stopped short by the door when he realized that there was something on the bed—a square package, wrapped in a bit of worn and used Kraft paper. He wasn't sure of having seen it when he entered before to take some trousers and a sweater. He came in and inspected it carefully, not sure what it could be, or who would have left it there. He looked around, just in case he was not alone in the room, but there was no one else. He thought he was just being paranoid, but he didn't ever dare to touch the object and stood there, staring at it, for a few seconds—maybe minutes, until he finally sat on the bed and took it in his hands. It was heavier than it looked at first glance and the wrapper was crumpled at the corners. He tore it until he could see what it was. A book—with illustrated animals in the cover and big letters that read _The Encyclopedia of Animals_. Paul stared at it until a smile crossed his face, then he laughed and shook his head in amusement.

* * *

Daryl shook his hand in the air, trying to get rid of the cigarette's smoke when he heard a light knock on the door. He had planned to go to Barrington House's viewpoint, but he thought—surprising himself by that reflection—that he didn't want to go, knowing that Paul wouldn't be there. Then he thought about going out to take a walk, but didn't want to talk to anyone, and playing dumb wouldn't help to improve the image they already had of him. So he had opened the window of his room for a smoke, trying to make sure the smell didn't get into the room, and betray him.

He opened the door slightly and Paul came into the room without waiting for an invitation.

"What was that shit about good manners?" the archer growled.

"Did you know that cats have an extraordinary ability to memorize visual, auditory and olfactory signs? That allows them to travel long distances if they intend to, or are forced to." He said tapping a finger in the book in his hands, as he sat on the bed.

Daryl blinked and watched him, trying to keep an impassive expression.

"They are also very sensitive to high frequencies," he continued, "can hear sounds up to fifty thousand hertz, that's _thirty thousand_ hertz more than we can… impressive, right? Oh, and they're also able to detect the mood in humans. I'm sure that little one detected that hidden kindness you have in there."

"Pfff… you know what that little fucker thought? Look at these two fools, wherever they come from—I'll probably find a lot of human slaves to keep me fed."

Paul laughed, and then went silent, "thank you…" he said softly.

Daryl looked away, blushing slightly, "no need, I'm regretting it already."

There was a brief moment neither of them said anything until Paul opened his mouth again, "did you also know that—"

"Heck! Swear I'm gonna throw it out the window if you keep talking!"

Paul let out a laugh and closed the book. Then he stared at the archer for a while. It seemed like minutes, or maybe time had just stopped suddenly. His smile had faded away from his lips, tough there was a strange light in his crystalline eyes—there was something in there that Daryl didn't know how to read, but it managed to get on his nerves. He was about to clear his throat and break that tiring silence when Paul moved his head, looking at the open window.

"Have you been smoking?"

"No," he said quickly.

"Come on! I'm not a cat, man, but this place stinks to high heaven."

Daryl shrugged, "who cares."

"Well, there are a lot of people who don't like the smell, and you're not alone in the house. It's about respect; you know what that means?"

"Don't give a shit about your fuckin' lessons, you should be in your room, resting, but you're here invading my personal space—that's a lack of respect too."

"Okay," Paul got out of bed with a slight jump. "See you tomorrow."

The next morning Daryl opened his eyes abruptly, like he had awakened from a bad dream. It had taken him some time to fall asleep, and the last time he had looked out, the sky was still dark, but now the sun's rays were coming through the window, warming the room.

He tried to move but then he noticed something slightly heavy over his legs. He looked down, frowning, and met with a pair of amber eyes watching him with a bored expression, then there was a meow, and the cat got up to change his position.

"The hell did you get in here?" the archer asked gravely.

The cat purred and yawned, never taking his eyes off him, and then closed them, like he was asking him to shut up and stop bothering him.

Daryl got off the bed carefully, trying not to annoy the sudden bunk usurper, who had fallen asleep peacefully at the end of the bed. Then he got dressed and went out. The day was sunny, but there was a cool breeze running and abundant clouds forming in the distance.

In the colony people were already working, unconcerned, like they thought those high walls were really dividing the world into two. He looked carefully, making a mental study based on his first impression. The man standing near the blacksmith's workshop, was too short, and was showing off a bulging tummy he doubted would allow him to run more than thirty feet without getting completely exhausted. Discarded. The woman, who was by his side, was tall but too thin, she didn't look strong enough physically, and he feared that she could be thrown down with a simple push. Discarded. He glanced toward the vegetable garden area; there was a man, maybe his same age, normal height and weight. He used the hoe with strength as he worked the land, he could be useful. Then he looked at his companion, he didn't bother to watch him more than two seconds. Discarded. The blacksmith discarded. His apprentice, too young. Discarded. Then he saw that woman, the redhead who followed him as a spy during his first days staying at Hilltop—medium height, strong back, but his attention went to her eyes, she could melt the brain of whoever crossed her path. Yes, they could use the woman with the hair of fire.

"How's your new friend doing?"

Daryl turned around when he heard Paul's voice behind him—the scout was holding a steaming cup in his hands, which he drank in small sips. The archer raised an eyebrow at first, not understanding his question. Then he realized he was talking about the feline invader. He didn't bother to look surprised that the damn hippie chatterbox had anything to do with the animal ending in his room, so he shrugged slightly and looked away, back to the community's routine activities.

"He's sleeping peacefully."

Paul drew a smile, "you should give him a name."

"Ain't _Cat_ enough?" then Daryl went silent for a moment. "Gonna see Harlan now."

"That's great, I'll _take a walk_ around the colony. I hope you get some good news from the doctor, we need you strong as an ox."

Daryl sat on an uncomfortable chair, in the small and narrow space, that has been set up as the waiting area inside the hospital trailer. At least he was glad to be there alone, even if he had to wait a good fifteen minutes until the curtain, that separated that part from the consultation, finally opened. A man in his sixties, with dark skin contrasting with his white beard and hair, came out coughing moderately as he leaned forward. _Discarded_.

As the man went outside, Harlan appeared, carrying his briefcase and ready to go, "Daryl!" he said, offering him a smile, "Wow, I wasn't expecting you, I have to make a visit, but come in, come in, let's see how that wound is doing."

Daryl accompanied Harlan inside and sat in a chair, letting the doctor do a thorough examination.

"You're much better than the last time I saw you," he said putting the stethoscope around his neck. Then he lowered his voice. "Jesus and I had a conversation yesterday, I know how important your recovery is right now, but the wound has healed perfectly—you may notice weakness and lack of precision at first, but just give it some time, okay? Try to do things with you arm; you'll gain strength and agility eventually. I'll tell Alex to come and remove the stitches."

"Can't remove them yourself?" Daryl asked quickly.

Harlan raised an eyebrow, "yes, of course, but as I said have to make a visit, Claire's pregnant and she hasn't been feeling well the past two days. If you think you can wait half an hour… Alex will do a fine job, maybe even better than me. He was a nurse before all this, if that's what worries you. "

"Ain't that…" Daryl huffed, "okay, whatever you say, you're the doc."

A few minutes later Alex appeared in the small office, nodded like he was greeting him, but didn't say a word. The nurse walked past him, barely looking at his face and tapped on a stretcher that was near the window. It was the same in which he had sat dawn when Alex threatened him to kick his ass out of Hilltop if he dared to put a hand on Paul again. _God_ , it was like that had happened years ago.

Daryl sat on the stretcher with his naked torso as Alex moved around opening cupboards and pulling out some utensils he placed in a steel trolley. The archer took a deep breath, trying to catch the air that didn't seem to fill in the room. He saw Alex put on some latex gloves, apply alcohol on the sutured wound, and take a pair of sharp scissors.

"What's that for?" Daryl asked, raising his voice.

Alex gave him a withering look, "to cut the stitches. Sit straight, this may hurt, but not too much."

The nurse started working, cutting the thread and removing it with a pair of tweezers. His eyes fixed on the wound, and his face showing a circumspect expression, that indicated he was in professional mode. Still Daryl didn't feel comfortable in his presence.

"He knows what he's doing," The archer said suddenly.

Alex looked up for a second, and then continued with what he was doing, "no need to defend him."

"Ain't defending him, but the decision—"

"Daryl," Alex cut him off, "since when have you known Paul, a month? A month and a half?"

 _Thirty-six days_ , Daryl thought. That was the time that had passed since their first encounter with Paul, and in that short of time he could tell he knew more things and secrets about the hippie chatterbox than what Alex may have found out in all the time they have spent together—but the archer said nothing.

"I've lived with him for nearly two years," the nurse said, "I know him, and I know that if he has taken this decision, it's because he has thought about it very carefully. So I don't need you to tell me how to take all this. This is not about you, nor me, or even Paul, it's about all those people. Four weeks is not enough," Alex moved slightly to remove the stitches on his back. "But don't worry, I won't oppose it, if that's what worries you. I'll do all I can to help."

The archer didn't say anything else while the other man finished his work—he winced once, though, when one of the stiches snagged his sensitive skin. Alex apologized, but his voice sounded so listless that Daryl doubted he really felt sorry about it.

The day passed without big surprises, everything was so normal and everyday, that Daryl thought he would be consumed by boredom eventually. He hadn't seen Paul, the little fucker seemed to have hidden himself in some remote corner in the community. Tara and Rosita had gone back out to clean the perimeter of walkers, helped by Eduardo, one of the guards of the colony, and Eugene continued to work on the radio. So he had spent part of his day taking a walk with Maggie, something that would have been comforting if they hadn't had to stop every two seconds so Maggie could explain to every single woman crossing their path, how the pregnancy was going, and incidentally listen to all kind of advices which, in some cases, Daryl considered unnecessary given his presence.

The night didn't improve things, he thought it would be a good time to meet with Paul to see what he had managed to find out, but he was not in his room and neither had he been seen anywhere else—he needed to smoke, but just like last night, he didn't want to go to the viewpoint alone. So he went to the main terrace followed by _Cat_. He leaned over the railing and lit a cigar, as _Cat_ tangled between his legs and sat down.

"Have nothing to give you, go bother someone else. It's the hippie who has the cookies, go look for him."

 _Cat_ settled in, ignoring his protests, and Daryl smoked in silence, trying not to move too much and disturb the damn animal, "should call you _Paul_ , you're just as annoying as him"

Then he heard some voices—he saw Alex heading to his trailer and Paul walking behind him. Daryl straightened his neck unconsciously, but from there it was impossible to hear what they were talking about, even though he was able to distinguish a bottle of wine in the scout's hands. They got inside the trailer together and closed the door.

Daryl's breath caught in his throat, cigarette in his mouth, but all of a sudden it tasted like shit. He needed to go back inside the house, but he didn't move, and spent a long time—more than he even was aware of—standing there, unable to take his eyes off that demonic cubicle. He wasn't sure what he was expecting to see, he didn't have a magical view that allowed him to see through steel walls, nor did he want to know what was going on in there. He blushed at the thought, so much that the heat spread throughout his body. _Cat_ moved, distracting him for a second, "thanks for reminding me, I'm standing here like a fuckin' idiot."

"Are you okay?"

Surprised by that voice filling the silence, Daryl turned and saw Tara standing next to the door. He swallowed—they hadn't fought again since they came back to Hilltop, but neither had exchanged a single word.

"Can we talk?" she asked.

"Sure."

Tara came over and rested her elbows on the railing, fixing her eyes away from those walls. Then she sighed, and shifted to stare at him, "I sorry for what happened the other day, I'm sorry I hit you, I was uh— I…"

"I know. I'm sorry too, shouldna let her come with us."

"It's okay Daryl, it was her decision, and I understand why she wanted to do it, for the same reason we are going to teach these people how to fight. You can't live ignoring what's going on for too long, because sometimes the walls are not enough. They need to learn to defend themselves, to be prepared. You did what you had to do. It's not your fault."

Daryl accepted her words gratefully because he felt he took a load off his shoulders.

Then there was a sound, and out of the corner of his eye, Daryl saw the trailer's door opened and Alex and Paul came out. He had no idea how long it had been since he had seen them get in, but Daryl felt a twinge in the stomach and he quickly got off the railing—scaring _Cat_ in the process—and moved toward the door, trying to get out of sight before the scout could see him. Tara watched him frowning in confusion, probably thinking he had lost his mind.

"What are you doing? Were you spying him?"

"Me? No—why the hell would I—no."

Tara raised his hands in the air, in a not very credible apology, "Hey, I heard they had removed your stitches, already," she said changing the subject, "Do you want to go out with me and Rosita tomorrow?"

"Yes…" Daryl sighed deeply, "Need to get out of here or I'll go mad."


	16. Chapter 16

Under his feet could be heard the thin sound of branches, and the early leaves announcing autumn's arrival. A melody filling his ears and injecting his body with and energy that he had forgotten he was able to feel. He was finally out, no bandages, no supervisors, and without having to wait, relegated to a back seat, while others did the work he was used to taking care of. Even the air caressing his nostrils came with a new and fresh scent.

It'd been ten minutes since they had started following a trail through the woods surrounding Hilltop, branches and stones that made their way into a small path, invisible to those who failed to pay attention. Tara was a few meters away from him, to his right, and to his left was Rosita. They walked slowly, with all their senses focused on anything moving around them, even though only the birdsong accompanied their steps, ringing in the air as if they were encouraging them from the top of the trees.

They moved for a few more feet until Daryl stopped, index finger over his lips. The two women looked at him and nodded. They heard too. There was still some distance, but the grunts were starting to float in the air clearly. They walked quietly, following the sound's thread, until they found the walker. It was a woman, back facing them, and long hair all tangled up. They looked around, but there were no more in sight. Tara stepped forward, ready to end it, but Rosita raised a hand to stop her.

"Let him do it," she said softly, shaking her head in Daryl's direction.

Tara kept hold of her knife but didn't move from where she was. The walker noticed their presence and turned around, fixing its eyes, empty of memory and judgment, on them.

Daryl drew the knife with his right hand, took a deep breath and closed his eyes just for a second. Then he opened them again and walked firmly up to the creature. He hesitated a moment, then raised his arm in the air and plunged the knife into its skull. The walker fell to the ground with a thud.

"You hesitated," Rosita said.

Tara made a sound in her throat, "give him a break, he's still recovering."

"Will you say that to Negan when we meet him again?" She said, walking towards Daryl, who had turned to look at them, but hadn't said a thing, "does it hurt?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure, it's only the first fuckin' day—relax," Daryl said gravely, ending the conversation sharply.

They continued checking the area for most of the morning. They had found five more walkers, and Daryl had insisted on taking them down personally.

"I heard part of their deal with the saviors was that they would keep the surroundings clean," Tara said, back at Hilltop.

"There's no deal," Daryl said. "They'll come, just how they did in Alexandria. I'm surprised they haven't done it already."

The rest of the day passed without incident, Daryl hadn't seen Paul until he found him leaving Barrington House, and the scout didn't even stop to talk to him, he just informed the archer they would meet again in Alex's trailer when the rest withdrew at nightfall.

When the sun hid and the sky went black, the eight of them found themselves in the nurse's trailer once again, and Paul showed them the list of people he had managed to gather.

"Twenty-three, isn't much, and it's more than likely that a lot of them will drop from the list eventually. I know that not everyone will be able to do this, but this is better than nothing."

He informed them that he had divided the list into three groups; separately it would be easier to test their abilities, and it would be better for them to work with a small number of people. Each of them—Daryl, Tara and Rosita—would be responsible for one of the groups, and would value their capacities by the end of the day. They would also cross off the list all of those who they considered were not qualified, even if they wouldn't tell them for the moment.

"It's better for them to keep training and gaining confidence. Besides, you never know how they might react, we don't need their egos to get in the way, remember we don't want the word to be spread."

Then he told them that he was going to take Eugene to Alexandria the next day, and would use the return trip to explore the road looking for some trace of the saviors. If he found a group, and there were no problems, he would try to follow them. That news didn't sit well with Daryl, who thought he would end up cracking his teeth, if he kept clenching his jaw like that. But he kept quiet, just as he had done back in the Kingdom; he knew that sooner or later the scout would have to carry out that stupid plan of his, so he simply crossed his arms and listened until there was nothing else to say.

The next day he woke up with _Cat_ lying on his face. After shaking him off, despite the animal's protests, he met with Tara and Rosita on the house's porch, where they informed him that Eugene and Paul were already gone. The archer made a sound in his throat, acting as if he didn't care, but he actually felt a growing pressure in the pit of his stomach. The little fucker had gone away without saying anything. Anyway, it didn't matter, as far as he was concerned he could stay away as much as he liked. Great. He didn't care. He had just came back to Hilltop to help them, that was it, and that's what he was going to do, because the plan was to end Negan, not to take walks, hand in hand, and smoke weed with the hippie cat-charming chatterbox.

"We movin' or what?" he said aloud, trying to stop the meaningless torrent of emotions that was about to make his head explode.

For the first day they had decided to keep to Hilltop's nearby surroundings with the group of volunteers. There were some doubts, but they assured them that they needed to face the reality and get used to the hostile world out there. They had given them some knives they had taken from the arsenal provided by Earl Sutton, and had spread out so as not to interfere with the other groups' work.

Daryl watched his gang. Kal, twenty-six, was tall and strong, he was used to being on watch, and occasionally helped Jesus, but only when the scout let him. He supposed he could work with him. Amber, twenty-three, was not very tall but she looked strong and determined, even if he suspected that she had only joined them because Mark, her boyfriend, was in another group—that could be a problem, though he was going to give her the benefit of the doubt. Larry, thirty-six, too thin and puny, he feared he wouldn't be able to wield the knife with enough force. Dante, twenty-eight, like Kal, was used to providing security to the colony. Samuel, a black man, also twenty-eight, was tall, very tall; almost a head taller than Daryl, so he figured that would imply some kind of advantage. Mandy, twenty-five, Eduardo's girlfriend, sometimes she helped with the surveillance, she was young but seemed very confident—somehow, she reminded him of Rosita. Wesley, twenty-nine, he was also very tall, although not as much as Samuel. And finally there was Owen, the youngest of the group, he was only eighteen, and Daryl couldn't help but keep wondering why the hell Paul had put him on the list. Along the way he had asked the kid several times if he was sure he didn't lie about his age, he definitely seemed much younger, and Owen insisted he had turned eighteen three months ago.

"Who cares, anyway?" Owen told him, "in this world age doesn't matter, what's important is how prepared you are."

The day would have gone smoothly, if out of his group of eight, Daryl hadn't already ruled out three of them in the first few hours. Amber—as he had suspected—Samuel, whose height was found to be disadvantageous, and Larry. He also had serious doubts about Wesley and Owen. The latter had showed attitude, but he still thought he was too young, and he didn't stop talking about Jesus, and how he wanted to learn to fight like he did, all _Jesus this_ and _Jesus that—_ that alone made Daryl want to send him back to Hilltop.

The others had shown courage and confidence, and had brandished their knives effectively. All that effort, though, had attracted the attention of a small number of walkers. Daryl, Dante and Kal finished four of them and Owen, to Daryl's surprise—and to the boy's satisfaction—had killed the fifth.

Back at Hilltop, Tara and Rosita exchanged looks with him, and as he had imagined, their groups had almost as many discards as in his.

"It's the first day, let's give them some time" Rosita said.

By nightfall, Daryl sat in his room, next to the open window, with a cigarette in his lips; after all, the cat-charming hippie pothead was not there to reproach him.

"And you ain't gonna tell him, right?" He told _Cat_ , who was lying next to the chair.

The next day, they went back to the same area for further work. The progression was moderate, but Daryl had to remind himself that it had been just one day. He asked them to practice stabbing their knives on wooden logs to gain strength in the execution of their strikes. They spent much of the day correcting their posture, and learning how to hold the knives properly. For some reason, the apprentices found that quite funny, but the archer showed them how easy it was to disarm them if they didn't grip their knives like they were a part of their own bodies.

They returned to Hilltop in the evening, and Daryl pretended not to, but he couldn't help but look around for Paul's 4x4, and there was no sign of the car. He shouldn't be there this soon anyway, he said to himself, as he had said, he was going to explore the road to find some trace of the saviors, maybe he had found it, and was working his bloody stupid plan.

That night Daryl was not able to sleep, and was one of the first to come out the next morning, filling his lungs with the dawn's fresh air.

"Were you waiting for me?"

The unexpected voice made him jump, surprising him amid the calm that, on the other hand, prevailed in the community. When Daryl turned he saw Paul, who appeared to his left and was approaching the house dressed from head to toe, with his working clothes.

"Asshole," he snapped, suddenly.

"I'm glad to see you too, man."

Daryl said nothing for a brief second, but the relief he felt when he laid eyes on the scout was difficult to ignore, even for him.

"You left without a word, we're working together on this."

"It was very early, I figured you'd be sleeping."

Paul opened the mansion's main door and the two entered the house and went up the stairs, walking side by side, toward the scout's room.

"How's our cat?"

" _Our_ cat? You mean that hairball chasing me everywhere and sleeping in _my_ room and in _my_ bed?"

"Have you given him a name, already?"

"Yes, _Cat_."

Paul let out a slight laugh, "Yeah, because thinking up something original was too much effort for you, right?"

The scout opened the door to his room and went inside. It was in that moment, when Daryl saw the bed, when he realized he had followed him there like it was something completely natural for the two of them. _Of course, we're friends_ , even if there were times when he wanted to shut his mouth with a used sock, he could say that yeah, they were friends—that was normal; Paul was acting like it was normal, why couldn't he behave like it was normal?

"Everything alright there?" the archer asked, shaking himself out of his own mind.

"Yes, everything's all right for now. Rick sends his greetings. Aaron does too. Eugene showed me where he intends to manufacture the ammunition. That man has a prodigious brain."

"Any trace of the saviors?"

"No, but I located an old shooting range that could be useful, you know? for training. By the way, what about our little army?" he asked as he tossed his hat and coat on the bed.

"They're doin' great, if you plan on fightin' a horde of people with no arms or legs," Paul cocked an eyebrow. "From my group maybe three are qualified, and I have some doubts about the other two, but the rest would do us all a favor to stay in their trailers, and stop wasting my time."

"Really?"

"What were you expecting?—And why the hell did you put Owen on the list?"

"He has attitude, and has a great advantage: his youth."

"That's an advantage?"

"Yes—strength, agility, accuracy, decision…"

"He's just a kid."

"So was Rory when he was killed," Paul's voice had gone quite suddenly. "Owen and Rory were friends, and they were together, side by side, when fate decided the saviors should choose Rory to punish everyone else. I know Owen thinks about it every single day, and can hardly sleep without having nightmares. His mother, Amelia, had told me. I know he's young, but if this was a normal world, he would be the legal age to decide what's best for him, and he has chosen this. I know he does it with his friend and mother in mind, and I'm not one to tell him otherwise, neither are you. If after the four weeks, you decide he's not prepared, you can reject him, but let him train for now; it will be good for him."

"I'm starting to think all of this is bullshit, man."

"Everything will be fine, you'll see."

"You don't know that, you don't—what the hell are you doing!" Daryl exclaimed when he saw Paul took off his vest and started unbuttoning his shirt.

The scout stared at him for a few seconds, eyebrow raised. "Oh..." he said then, aware, "sorry, I forgot that you _might_ be tempted now."

"Fuck off, asshole! You already have that covered."

"Ah! yes… now I remember your pathetic attempt to hide the other day. Were you spying on us?"

"I was there first, just havin' a nice smoke, before you two ruined the view."

"It was just a dinner…"

Daryl waved a hand in the air, like he was no longer interested in the conversation. "I don't give a shit."

"That's not true—we were working on the list, and also, we're still friends. I also had dinner with you, what's the difference?"

 _We haven't slept together_ , he was about to let slip from his lips, and Daryl winced slightly at that thought.

"Any plans for today?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Right now I'm going to take a shower, then I'll rest a little and after that I'll go to see how everything is going with you all."

* * *

Paul hoped the shower would help him set aside his thoughts of the archer, if only for a few hours. He was trying to act normal, but the pinch in the stomach he felt when he saw Daryl on the porch, had been very real, as real as the drops of cold water splashing over his body like small needles. He had to laugh it off, he didn't think he had a single second during the whole trip to think of anything else than the plan to take Negan down, but he knew that, in some remote corner of his brain, he had really missed that rough and grumpy archer. He had missed those late-night talks where the two of them could relax and let go, and talk about things they didn't dare confess to anyone else. He had shared long conversations with Alex, but he hasn't even spoken about Ben to him, or about the life he once had, or what he had done in a past that was now too distant.

Daryl reminded him of Ben, he had told the archer five days ago, in the house of the small farm they had found halfway. And it was ironic because Daryl was nothing like Ben, not physically, nor mentally. But still he reminded him of Ben, the same phobias, the same blank looks he had seen in Ben when they had met. The same doubts and fears. But Ben finally opened up, and had given himself to him completely.

Paul felt a sudden panic strangling his stomach. He rubbed his face wearily. Perhaps, and for once, the grumpy archer was right, and he needed some sleep, or at least he should try to, because it was quite possible that, indeed, the lack of sleep was clouding his judgment and driving him mad.

When Paul opened his eyes again and looked at the clock, he saw that he had only managed to turn off his brain for forty minutes _. Forty-three_ , to be exact. He snorted and rolled out of bed, and after greeting some of his neighbors, and talking briefly with Gregory, who had come out just to get some fresh air, he found Maggie in the vegetable gardens.

"Shouldn't you be resting?" the scout asked her.

"I'm pregnant, not disabled, and anyway, shouldn't you be doing the same?" she said, turning to look at him, smiling. "I'm glad to see you're back."

"And I'm glad to see you're better with each passing day."

"Yes, I felt good this morning, so I thought it would be a good idea to lend a hand over here, I had almost forgotten how amazing it is to see things grow. We tried in Alexandria, but it was useless."

"This is good land."

"Yes," Maggie stood up and approached him. "How's everything over there?"

"As planned for now, but this is just the beginning. Rick and the rest lament not being able to come to see you. They really miss you."

Maggie drew a grimace, "I miss them too. God! I can't believe I haven't seen them since…"

Maggie's voice choked briefly and Paul approached her, putting an arm around her. She smiled, grateful for the warm gesture.

"I'm going to see how things are going with our small group of _explorers_ —will you be okay here?"

"Yeah, this is quite relaxing."

After saying goodbye to Maggie, Paul left the calm reigning within the walls, and headed into the woods surrounding Hilltop. It didn't take him long to locate Rosita's group, she had just asked them to do push-ups, and it didn't surprise him to see that not many of them were in good shape. Then he found Tara, she was not as tough as Rosita, she spoke to them with kindness, but she was just as demanding. And then he found Daryl's group, and as he had imagined, the archer was the most impatient of the three. He snorted loudly as he was teaching them how to follow a squirrel's trail—but the animal had managed to escape from them every time they were about to catch him.

"Why do we have to learn this shit?" Wesley asked, "this is not useful"

"Course it's not gonna be useful for ya," the archer replied sharply "cause you'll be the first to get a bullet in that empty skull of yours."

Paul raised his eyebrows and shook his head, laughing quietly.

"You're following a trail cause one day you may be out there, alone—no food… and because if you're able to follow a fuckin' squirrel, you'd be able to follow a man—you understand that?"

"Don't you think you're being a bit harsh with them?" Paul asked him when they could step aside to speak.

"Me? I'm all love and tenderness, like a _Care Bear_ ," Paul would have laughed at that if it weren't for the obvious irritation in Daryl's tone. "If you think you can do better—train them yourself."

Paul raised his palms, asking for a truce, and then stepped aside to let the archer do his job.

The rest of the day went without incident, just like the two following days—by the third day, Paul left the groups to go out alone and do a new reconnaissance run, prepared in case he actually found a trace of the saviors. Owen tried to convince him to let him go with him, he wanted to learn to do what he did, but the scout had been adamant about it.

After an hour away, Paul had left the car hidden in an abandoned farm, and had spent much of the morning moving stealthily through forests, mountains and meadows. A few hours later, he had stopped to drink some water, when he thought he heard the roar of engines in the distance. He ran to a point where he could have a better view of the road—he saw two pick-ups carrying a heavy load on their trailers. He moved quickly through the woods near the road, following the two vehicles and trying not to lose sight of them—The cars diverted towards an abandoned factory. Paul got as close as he could while he watched them cross the wire fence surrounding the whole area, and parked next to two large trucks.

It was in that moment when the scout realized the bulges on trailers were actually people, they had the heads covered and hands tied behind their backs. Paul's breath quickened. He moved carefully a bit more to reach the fence so he could see what they were doing. He saw them open the trailers' doors and pulling down those people. But he was wrong, they were not people, at least not anymore—from there, he could hear perfectly the guttural whimpers more typical of animals than humans.

The scout narrowed his eyebrows in bewilderment, wondering what the hell were they doing. He watched as the walkers tried to get up and move, but deprived of vision, all they managed was to run into each other, or fall off the trailers accompanying the hits against the ground with the sound of broken bones. Meanwhile, the saviors took them, one by one, and after removing the hoods and ropes, they put them inside the large trucks.

He was about to get out of there when he heard a sound behind him. It was a walker. He probably came attracted by the noise inside the factory, but after appearing in the clearing, the creature noticed his presence and now was walking in his direction. Paul cursed to himself, from there it was impossible to kill it without exposing himself, so he leaned to one side slightly—the walker followed him, but the scout moved a bit more, until he managed to get out of the saviors' line of sight, behind one of the concrete pillars supporting the fence. Then he took out his knife and waited until the creature got closer. But in that moment one of the saviors got near the fence.

"Hey! Here's another one!" he screamed.

"And what are you doing there, you idiot! Go get it!"

 _Shit_. He had to get out of there and had to do it as soon as possible, but he knew they would see him if he did. He closed his eyes. He thought about his possibilities. He opened them again. He crawled on the ground further, trying to hide as much as he could behind the pillar, but he knew it was not enough, the walker was still moving in his direction, and he could see the savior approaching them through the wire. He was armed and in one hand he was carrying a catchpole. Paul kept his eyes on him, he was holding a cigarette between his lips, like hunting walkers was the most everyday thing he could do. Paul tried to stay calm, ignoring the cold sweat running down his forehead like a torrent of water. His breathing had quickened and his heart was pounding furiously against his chest—but the savior had his eyes fixed on the walker.

"Where do you think you're going, fucker?"

The man caught the walker with the catchpole after a first failed attempt, and pulled him aside to force him to move in the opposite direction, and it was in that moment when he saw Paul. The savior opened his eyes, surprised at first, it was obvious he was not expecting to find anyone else there—at least not someone alive, and Paul took advance of those few confusing seconds, to kick him in the legs. The savior dropped the catchpole, and fell back letting out a cry of pain when his body hit the ground.

Paul got on top him immediately, covering his mouth with one hand, and with a fast and precise movement, he plunged the knife directly over the man's ear.

"The hell was that!" someone exclaimed from the other side of the fence.

The scout didn't wait longer and ran into the woods.

"Someone's there!"

Paul heard the hustle and shouting behind him as he ran, reaching the wooded area at the precise moment he heard the hiss of bullets flying in his direction, tearing apart the bark of the trees he was leaving behind him. One of the splinters shot off scratching his cheek like a lion's claw. But he ran and ran until there was no more air in his lungs. Some of the saviors had gone after him, he had heard them, but they hadn't ventured into the woods more than a few miles, so when he thought he was at a safe distance, he tried to find a place to hide.

After countless hours, he looked for a stream and washed vehemently his gloves smeared with blood—the blood of a human being, he didn't stop telling himself, scrubbing hard, feeling his stomach turn as he watched the water stained red.

Then he returned to the farm where he had left his 4x4. It was getting dark already, so he got into the back seat, his cheek burning as he could feel the wetness of blood—but it was dark, and he was too tired to care about it. It was not the first time he had to spend the night hours in his car, but he was feeling some strange coldness, an icy chill that made him tremble and that had nothing to do with the evening breeze. And suddenly he was afraid, because the first thing he thought about when he sat on the backseat, was how much he would have liked Daryl was there with him—he rubbed his face, maybe he was starting to go mad after all. He snuggled against the back of the seat and closed his eyes, trying to empty his mind, as he waited for the sun to rise again.


	17. Chapter 17

It was the eleventh day since they had returned back to Hilltop, the ninth since they had started training, and the fourth since Paul had left the colony. Daryl was trying to keep himself busy with the work they were doing and not think too much about the scout's absence. He knew he shouldn't worry about him; after all, he was talking about the cat-charming hippie pothead, he knew how to take care of himself. However, when Paul was about to leave, he had said that he was just going to try to find a trail, and study the possibilities he had, before venturing going after the saviors. It'd been four days and three nights since that, and they still had no news of his whereabouts.

He sighed deeply, forcing himself to focus on the guys in his charge while they prowled around Hilltop, clearly clueless about what they were doing. He had asked them again to track an animal; they'd been trying that for several days now, and still hadn't been able to find anything. Only the day before they had managed to follow a trail that led them to a walker. Jaded, Daryl had killed it and had urged them to keep looking.

Tara and Rosita were not in a much better mood than he was, from their group very few were progressing and showing enough strength and courage to face a situation like the one coming, and they felt that the rest not only were not improving their few skills but were also becoming a real nuisance to their peers.

"We should get rid of the useless ones—the rest need to start practicing with the weapons as soon as possible," Rosita suggested, after returning to Hilltop to eat something and before continuing working in the afternoon.

Daryl and Tara had agreed with her. The archer told them about the shooting range Paul had found a few days ago, though the scout hadn't told him where it was located, so it didn't matter that much.

"Isn't it a bit strange he hasn't returned?" Tara said after a moment of silence.

"Probably found a supermarket and started fillin' the truck with shampoo."

That comment could have made the two women laugh if it hadn't been because the words slipped from the archer's mouth like poisoned darts. Tara and Rosita looked at each other, but said nothing, and the archer didn't care what they thought, because by their expressions it was obvious that he wasn't the only one concerned about the prolonged absence of that damned hippie chatterbox.

They returned to the woods in the afternoon. There were long faces among the trainees—the most advanced felt they needed to do something else apart from following squirrels' tracks, or brandishing their knives against inert objects, and the laggards were bored of the exercises they were not able to develop as the rest did. Daryl proposed them then something like a game—he told them he had hidden a small orange ball; if they were able to follow the tracks he had left, they should be able to find it.

"First one to find it, will be the first one to choose a weapon when we start practicing with them."

"And when the hell will that be?" Wesley asked.

"When flowers start growin' outta my ass, 's that okay with ya? Now go find the damn ball."

All eight started running, scanning the ground like predators. Meanwhile Daryl lit a cigarette and leaned against the trunk of a tree, watching the package he held between his fingers—there were only three cigarettes left, and he knew that was not going to be enough to calm his nerves as he waited for the boys to find the damn orange ball, but half an hour later, he heard Owen's voice in the distance.

"I found it!"

Night began to fall as they crossed the colony's gates again. All trainees went back to their homes, though just one of them seemed really happy. Owen smiled, satisfied with the work he had done, and Daryl had to admit that the boy was progressing like no other, and perhaps, of them all, he was the one who was improving the most. Kal, Dante and Mandy, also were doing well, but they had more experience, and they were the ones showing more reluctance, probably because they thought they were wasting their time on beginner exercises.

As they passed through Hilltop's walls, Daryl couldn't help but look around, and feel again a knot strangling his stomach when he found out that there was no sign of Paul's 4x4 yet.

"He should be back by now," he said a while later, sitting in a chair in Maggie's room.

"Maybe he changed his mind," she said, though there was a worrying lack of confidence in her response.

Daryl made a sound from deep in his throat, "knew it was a stupid plan. That damned chatterbox… somethin' mighta happened to him, he might need help but we don't know shit… and all cos he insisted on goin' alone."

Maggie watched him carefully for a moment, it looked like she was about to let out one of those hackneyed " _he will be fine_ " phrases, but the concern was also evident in her eyes, and her lips pressed in a thin line.

"Going out to look for him would be dangerous, we've been through that before. Split up is useless, it only weakens us."

"Fine, let's let him rot out there, then."

"I'm not saying that, Daryl, what's wrong with you?" she asked, frowning, but Daryl stared intently at the window and said nothing. Maggie sighed. "If I could, I would go out myself, but it's not reasonable. Let's consider the most sensible thing, okay?"

But Daryl couldn't imagine what the most sensible thing was, in fact he didn't believe there were many alternatives, just two options really, either stay and wait, or go out. If they waited, maybe they could do it for a day or two more. If in that time the scout hadn't returned back, that really meant that something had happened to him, and in that case, they could only abandon him to his fate. Or they could go out looking for him, but it may be already too late.

He rose from his chair with a loud sigh and began walking around the room, "without him, this place's fucked," he said suddenly.

Maggie looked away, "we're here, we'll take care of them."

"They don't need bodyguards, they need someone they can trust, someone to show them how to be strong, and they won't do that while that cowardly fuck is still their leader."

"Keep your voice down, Daryl."

But anger was growing inside the archer like a hungry beast, "does he care 'bout anything else other than than keepin' this fuckin' house clean or layin' around in bed? Has he asked once if anyone knows anything 'bout Paul? Has he shown concern 'bout the whereabouts of the best man in this whole damn place?"

"Daryl, calm down, it's not my fault— I'm worried too… "

The archer huffed, knowing he was losing his temper, "I know, I'm sorry…" he said, and walked over to Maggie to kiss her on the forehead, "You should rest."

Before Daryl could get away, Maggie grabbed his hand, "hey… tomorrow, if he hasn't come back, we'll think of something."

Daryl left Maggie's room and headed to the house's main terrace followed by _Cat_ , who had waited patiently in the hallway. He needed a cigarette as much as he needed to breathe, and he expected the cool night breeze helped him to think more clearly. However, and despite Maggie's words, he was sure that if there were no signs of Paul by dawn, he would organize a small group to go looking for him, they couldn't wait any longer, the scout was an important part in the confrontation against Negan and his men, and he was also an important piece for Hilltop. _And he was important to him_. His stomach lurched as the thought crossed his mind like a lightning across the sky. He grumbled to himself, he needed to stop taking everything so personally.

The archer opened the door with more energy than necessary, and he had barely taken two steps into the terrace when he jumped—there, stopped in the middle of the colony, was the 4x4. He reached the railing in a couple of strides and saw that someone was prowling around the vehicle. He immediately recognized Kal, who took the driver's seat and pulled the car away, taking it to the place where Paul usually parked it.

The archer went back to the mansion with such determination that he almost bumped into someone—he was about to spit a quick apology when he realized that the human obstacle was none other than Paul Monroe.

Daryl stood there watching him for a moment, like his brain was trying to rationalize the fact that the man before him was not just a hallucination. There was no hat, though he was wearing his trench coat, his hair looked matted and dirty. The dark circles framing his crystalline eyes were much deeper than the last time he had seen him, and he had an open wound on his cheek. There was dried blood around it, which meant either that he had not realized he had hurt himself—which seemed unlikely—or that he hadn't had a single moment to take care of himself.

"Everything's good here?" the scout asked with a serenity as astonishing as irritating.

Daryl blinked a few times before being able to clear his throat, which seemed to have closed up the second he had laid eyes on the other man, "'s this a fuckin' joke?"

Paul opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again, and cocked his head to one side.

"The hell've you been?"

"Doing what I said I was going to do."

"For four days? Maggie and Tara, and—were really starting to worry 'bout the whereabouts of yer fuckin' ass, asshole! We were 'bout to get ready to go lookin' for you, dammit!"

Something changed in the scout's face, his lips pressed together in a subtle way, and there was something in his eyes that Daryl was not able to read. Then he lowered his shoulders, accompanying the movement with a deep sigh.

"Things got a bit complicated," he said, and started to walk toward his room. Daryl followed him, but the scout didn't say anything else until they came inside and closed the door behind them. "I found a group, I followed them to a factory. I just talked to Gregory about it, I think they might be planning an attack."

Daryl frowned, "what d'ya mean?"

"They were transporting walkers in pick-ups, and once in the factory they loaded them into large trucks" Paul shook his head, "you don't go to that kind of trouble, with the danger it entails, if you're just trying to cleanse the world of walkers, right? You kill them, you burn them and that's it," Paul paused briefly, like he was trying to organize his thoughts. "These past three days I've been trying to get close to see if I could find out something else, but they have set guards around the area. I guess my presence alarmed them."

The archer raised an eyebrow, "they saw you?" he asked, raising his voice.

The scout looked down for a second, then took a deep breath, "yes, they saw me, don't think they recognized me, though—at least I hope so."

Daryl rubbed his eyes, "told you this plan of yours was bullshit, you shouldn't—"

"Okay, stop it—I don't want to hear this right now, Daryl, and I'd be grateful if you stopped treating me like I'm useless. Sometimes things just go wrong—it's as simple as that."

There was a moment when the silence seemed the only thing present in the room, until Daryl shifted and spoke again, "we didn't know what was going on out there, we didn't know if you were okay or not—we were worried," he said, lowering his voice, and fully aware that he was including himself in that _us_. "And I don't think you're useless."

Paul stared into his eyes and again the expression on his face turned into something that Daryl could only define as puzzlement, like he was really surprised that there were people worrying about him.

"I'm fine," he said then.

"You're injured."

Paul put a hand to his cheek, like he had forgotten about the wound tearing his skin, and in his eyes he saw something, but he didn't know quite what it was—restlessness, perhaps.

"Oh… yeah."

"What happened?"

"Eh?"

"They saw you—what happened?"

"I killed one of them. He came out to catch a walker that was heading toward my hiding place—I couldn't get out without them seeing me, though I had to do it anyway, so… whatever," he said shrugging and looking away.

"What's this… you feeling remorse?"

Paul shrugged again, then drew a hand over his face and hair, as he plopped down the bed. Daryl hadn't realized how tired and despondent he looked, until that moment.

"You do what you have to do because you have no other choice," he said, distracted "but there's always a moment when you suddenly think, _damn_ , I killed a person."

"He would've killed you."

"I know, but frankly that doesn't make me feel any better. And I know you probably think I've lost my mind or something—"

"Already thought that."

Paul chuckled slightly, but the smile didn't reach his eyes, "Is not that I don't want to fight, suddenly—I know we don't have more options, but that doesn't make any of this make sense. I mean, why do we have to fight each other when our main concern should be the dead? But that's the way things are—in the end the problem is always the living, right?"

Daryl wanted to sit next to him and tell him everything would be fine, even if there was no certainty about that. And the archer couldn't help but sigh at the irony of the situation, because it was Paul the one always showing confidence and strength, and not being able to offer him the same security he always brought to everyone, caused him a deep sense of powerlessness. Now Paul was the one needing it, and Daryl was there, not knowing what to say or do. Or he did, but was afraid to do so.

The conversation was interrupted by a knock on the door, and Daryl was not sure if he should feel relieved or frustrated. Paul replied to the call without moving off the bed, and Alex poked in shortly after. His eyes first met the scout and then Daryl's.

"Am I interrupting something?" he asked, "Kal told me you wanted to see me…"

"Yeah, well it was not that urgent," he said pointing to the wound in his cheek, "I don't think it's really important, didn't want to bother Harlan because of it."

Alex entered the room, ignoring the archer's presence as soon as he took his eyes off him, and leaned over Paul, carefully taking his face in his hands, and tilting it to get a better view of the cut.

"We have to clean it to see how deep it really is; I'll go get the kit."

"No, don't worry, I'll go with you."

"No—Paul, you look awful, stay here, you need to rest."

Daryl was about to agree with him, but he decided against it. Actually, seeing Alex stroking Paul's face made his heart race with an uneasiness he had never felt before. He thought the best he could do was leave the room and leave them alone.

* * *

"Yer a goddamned lucky hairball…"

Daryl was watching _Cat_ with bored eyes, who slept peacefully on the pillow where he had laid his head just a moment ago, as he finished buttoning his shirt and put on his vest. Outside, the sky was changing its colors as the sun rose behind the hills, though that morning thick and dark clouds were looming in the distance.

His gaze turned when he heard the knock on the door, and Daryl narrowed his eyebrows when he saw Paul on the other side. He looked like a different person than the one he had seen a few hours ago. He had showered, his hair was still wet and he could smell, perfectly, his damned shampoo. His face was clean, no dried blood staining his cheek, and over the wound he had two of those closure strips.

"What d'ya want?" the archer asked, tearing the words.

"Talk. Yesterday you left without saying anything—there were still things I wanted to discuss with you."

Daryl stepped aside to let him in, "I've got to meet with Tara and Rosita, so hurry up."

For a moment it looked like Paul was ignoring him, he approached the unmade bed, and sat down to pet _Cat_ , who responded enthusiastically to his touch, purring and turning belly-up. _Traitor_.

"Hello, little one! You like that, right? I'm sure that grumpy owner of yours hasn't rubbed your belly even once."

"I keep it full of food, which is way better," Daryl muttered. "What d'ya want? Told you I hafta go."

Paul turned to nail his blue eyes on him, and Daryl felt a sudden and telltale flush lighting his cheeks. _Calm down, you idiot_. But he couldn't help, suddenly seeing the scout sitting on his bed, where he had been sleeping—or trying to—made him feel an intense and unexpected tingle in his stomach. That damn cat-charming hippie pothead was going to drive him crazy.

"How are they doing?"

"Eh?"

"Our boys, how are things going?"

"Like if you led them over a slope, riding a bike with no brakes." Paul took a deep breath and rose. "Some are doin' well," Daryl continued, "others should go back to planting things, or taking care of the cows—no, that's too much responsibility for them."

"Don't you think you're overreacting?"

"No."

"We need them all."

"That's impossible."

"Maybe not for the war, but for Hilltop. If the saviors are planning an attack, we can't sit here and wait to see if we are one of the targets or not. We must be prepared, and the more the merrier."

"What do you wanna do?"

"Take them to the rice factory."

Daryl frowned, "ya want them to face a mob of walkers?"

"Yes."

Daryl let out a short laugh full of sarcasm, "and I'm here asking them to find golf balls hidden in the woods. You're fuckin' crazy, you know that right?"

"Okay, you're right, let's wait and when the saviors come here, we'll ask them kindly to excuse us, that we are not prepared to face them and, if they don't mind, it would be best if they came back another day."

"Hey, hippie! Don't use that tone on me…"

"They need to do it."

"You haven't been workin' with them like I have—they're not ready."

"And they'll never be, if they don't face the fucking reality, Daryl."

The scout's voice sounded hard, just like a punch in his ears, "if things go wrong, they'll weigh on your conscience more than anyone else," the archer said with an unusual calmness.

"Things can go wrong at any time and anywhere, and as you've told me repeatedly—we can't save everyone's asses."

Daryl scratched his head and nodded after a moment. He didn't like the idea but the chatterbox was right, everything could go wrong at the least expected moment, he and his people knew that better than anyone, and it was impossible to protect them all.

"We have to tell Rick 'bout this," Daryl said.

* * *

They didn't have cars for everyone, so from all the volunteers they had chosen only twelve. Kal and Tara were going to stay at Hilltop to keep watch in their absence, while Rosita had taken one of his boys, Marco—another scout of the colony—to go to Alexandria to inform Rick about the news Paul had brought.

"There's a small town twenty minutes away from the factory, it's clean, we'll spend the night there, and return back the next day, so pack only the essentials," Paul informed them

It still amazed Daryl that cat-charming hippie pothead's ability to convince a group of people—mostly inexperienced—to leave the safety of their walls, to venture out to annihilate a dangerously large amount of walkers. All that without considering the possibility of having to face the saviors. They were taking three cars, so going unnoticed was not going to be easy. They had loaded some guns, but the archer expected—for the safety of their own asses—to not use them.

In the colony, Paul had told Gregory that he was taking the group to clean out the factory they had found a few weeks ago, secure the storehouse, and bring back more food—something that was not entirely a lie.

Heading the caravan was the scout, with his 4x4, followed by Eduardo who was driving a maroon _Honda Civic_ , and finally was Daryl, with an old _LaCrosse_ that he hoped wouldn't disintegrate halfway. They only stopped once to fill up the cars, and in just five hours they arrived at the rice factory. Daryl couldn't help but think back to a few days ago, and remember what had happened there.

After checking the place was just as intact as the last time, everyone gathered again near one of the main gates. Paul stood in front of them.

"We are not training here, okay? What's behind those doors is very real. Your lives depend on what you'll do here today. You have to work as a team and remember it doesn't matter how many they are, you're faster and smarter—you, you, you, you and you," he said, pointing to Andy, Richard, Mark, Marcus and Arnold, "You'll coming with me, we're gonna get inside through the storehouse, and while the rest attract them outside, we will attack them from behind, okay?" He said looking at each and every one of them, "Are you ready?"

Unrest was breathable in each of them, Daryl was starting to feel that this was not a good idea, but he answered affirmatively when Paul approached him to ask if he agreed with the plan.

They split in two and Daryl approached the main door, ready to open it. Before doing it, he took a look at his group: Oscar, Mandy, Eduardo, Wesley and Owen, the five were prepared, gripping their knives hard, but you had to be blind to not see the fear in their eyes.

"Ready?"

"Ready!" They had answered at once.

Daryl slid the doors to either side and ran to join the rest, the walkers soon noticed their presence and started moving outward, filling the air with their shrill and pitiful whimpers. Mandy stepped forward from the group, and killed the first one. That gesture made the others move forward, like it had provided an extra shot of adrenaline, driving their knives into the temples of those beings.

The sound of their cries became thunderous, bouncing back with a painful echo over the walls of the whole factory, and warning all of those who were still inside, making them move like a stream of water, increasing with each passing seconds.

"Move back!" Daryl shouted, "get them away from the factory! Let the bodies be an obstacle for them!"

The boys obeyed his orders, moving in tune and walking backwards, leaving a trail of bodies in front of them, and as the archer had said, the corpses were a hindrance to the advancement of the rest, making some of them fall to the ground, and they used that advantage to sink their knives into their rotten skulls.

Daryl then noted that some walkers were turning around, returning back to the factory, so he deduced that Paul's group was already inside, doing their job from the other side.

"They are going away!" Oscar exclaimed.

Not even thinking about it, Oscar and Wesley ran forward to take on those walkers.

"No, you idiots! Turn back!" Daryl asked them.

But the crowd of walkers began to crowd together at the entrance. Daryl didn't remember there being so many, or maybe he did, but his mind was starting to convulse as he watched Oscar and Wesley run straight to the horde of creatures more than willing to rip them apart if they trapped them between their desperate hands.

"Fuck!"

"What the hell are you doing!" Eduardo shouted.

Daryl moved forward decisively, trying to dodge the inert bodies scattered all over the ground, and killing every walker in front of him. Behind him, he could feel Eduardo, Mandy and Owen, following and doing exactly the same. From inside the factory he could sense the decrease in the number of walkers, while he could just imagine Paul, and the rest, moving between their decomposed bodies, and killing them all.

But there were still too many, and suddenly Oscar and Wesley were surrounded. Daryl and the rest marched on with difficulty; they couldn't move a step without finding the creatures surrounding them in every direction.

"Fucking shit!"

He heard, unable to recognize the voice amid all the noise and inhuman cries that were drilling his eardrums. He tried to look around to see if the others were fine, but he only saw putrefied hands and arms moving in his visual field like caged snakes.

A cry was heard, then.

"Owen!"

It was Mandy's voice; Daryl finished off a walker, took a quick look and saw Owen stepping forward to try to help his peers. In the background, he could already see Paul and his group, but the two buds of Wesley and Oscar were still having problems. The archer saw one of the beings cling to Wesley's jacket, but he managed to shake it off, throwing it aside, but the walker hit Oscar. The young man screamed surprised when he fell over a pile of corpses, but Owen arrived just in time to end the creature before it could attack Oscar. However, when he tried to pull away, Owen stumbled against Wesley, who jerked his hand, cutting himself with his own knife in his thigh. The young man cried in pain and pushed Owen, making him fall to the ground.

"Idiot!" Wesley shouted.

Owen tried to get up quickly, but something stopped him. One of the walkers laying on the ground was not dead, and grabbed his arm pulling him harder than he could imagined. Owen yelled, scared, doing everything he could to free himself, but another creature fell over him.

"No!"

"Owen!"

Oscar got up running, and fled from the quagmire, while Wesley froze watching the scene. Mandy and Eduardo, tried to move quickly to help Owen, as Daryl, Paul and the rest, watched what was happening in horror.

Meanwhile, Owen fought against the walker he had on him, while the other was pulling his arm, and crawling over the ground, with its open factions, ready to nail its teeth into his skin.

Daryl ended one of the last creatures he found crossing his path, and jumped quickly through the corpses, running toward where Owen was. The archer cut off the walker's hand, and stabbed the knife into its skull. Once released, Owen grabbed his weapon and brandished it into the other creature's temple, which collapsed on top of him.

Suddenly silence succumbed everything around the factory. Besides the mocking birdsong, only the whistle of a cool breeze, they hadn't noticed until that moment, could be heard, and it sent a cold chill through their sweaty bodies.

Daryl breathed deeply, trying to calm himself, but his hands and legs were shaking. He laid his eyes on Owen, who was still on the floor, stunned and unable to move. The archer took a deep breath, and reached him removing the creature that almost cost him his life—then he held out a hand that the young man clung tightly.

"You okay, kid?" Daryl asked, as he helped him to get up.

Owen was only able to move his head—Daryl fixed his gaze on Wesley then, who was examining the cut in his thigh, and like he felt someone was watching him, he lifted his head, his eyes meeting the archer's.

Daryl felt a sudden and growing anger coursing through his veins, like a raging river. He was not even aware of what he was doing, he just realized that his body had started to move almost by choice, and he was walking briskly to where Wesley stood. He could hear something similar to a murmur filling the air around him, and could see out of the corner of his eye, Paul's figure moving fast, and appearing in front of him just before he could reach Wesley.

"No!" the scout exclaimed, placing both hands on his chest to stop him.

"You! Piece of shit! I'd smash yer face into the ground, right now!"

"Daryl, calm down!"

Paul pushed him back and Daryl looked away until he met the scout's blue eyes. In them, he expected to see that calm and reassuring look that perhaps would have helped him in that moment, but he only saw rage, the same he was feeling. But having him there, so close, managed to appease his uncontrolled nerves. Daryl looked around, the rest of the group had moved to a safe distance, ready to intervene if necessary. Then he laid his eyes on Paul again, but the scout turned to look at Wesley.

"What the hell happened?" he asked gravely.

"I…he—he hit me… I—I cut myself, and I was scared—"

"You pushed him."

"I wasn't thinking—"

"You weren't thinking? You can't _not_ think when you're surrounded by walkers, Wesley."

"I could have helped Oscar, but he got in the way."

"This is not a fucking competition, we're working together, dammit! Do you realize that Owen could be dead right now?"

Paul's voice increased with each word coming out of his mouth, even if it was obvious he was trying, with all his strength, to stay calm.

"Give me your knife," he said, stepping forward.

Wesley frowned, confused, and looked at the scout for a few long seconds, like he expected to find something in his eyes, indicating he was not being serious.

"Give me your knife," he repeated.

Wesley looked at the rest of the group, but none of them seemed to be willing to stick up for him in that moment, and Daryl was sure that it was not only because they were aware that he was solely responsible for what had happened, but because they respected Paul above anyone else there.

The man handed his knife, reluctantly; Paul took it off his hands, and turned around walking away.

"What do you think will happen if Gregory learns about what you're doing?" Wesley asked then.

Paul turned to face him, "Gregory already knows."

"No, Gregory knows that we're training, but he doesn't know it's because _you_ want to fight the saviors."

Daryl could see some alarm in the scout's eyes, but it was like a ghost had taken over his face, a shadow so imperceptible that he doubted that the rest would have been able to perceive it.

"Be happy you're not gonna be one of them, then, because I assure you, you'd have been one of the first to get killed."

"You can't throw me out!"

"I'm doing it," the scout replied, turning around and closing down the argument.

But Wesley was not going to let it go, and started walking after Paul, "I'll tell him! I swear I'll tell him! You don't have—!"

The words were drowned in the air as Daryl pounced on him, knocking him off balance, both falling to the ground. Wesley cried out in pain, as the archer got on top of him, immobilizing the man, and holding his face tightly with one hand.

"Open your mouth, you fuckin' bastard, and I swear it will be the last thing you'll do, cause I'll bust your jaw to death if you do, you hear me!"

Daryl felt some arms around him, pulling him away from Wesley, who was struggling desperately beneath his body.

"Enough! That's enough!" Eduardo exclaimed.

"I'll crush you, you bastard!" he shouted as he tried to get rid of those holding him and dragging him away.

The archer struggled with them until he got loose. His heavy breathing made his chest rise and fall quickly, his gaze still fixed on Wesley, as he paced from one place to another, trying to calm down and regain the composure he had lost completely. Then he looked around him, Eduardo, Mark and Andy were the ones who had held him. His eyes then looked for Paul, and he found him in the same place where he had stopped when he lunged against Wesley. His expression was so serious and straight that he looked like an ivory figure. His eyes darker than usual, and his voice was grave, although moderate, when after a thunderous silence, he spoke again:

"Let's clean this place out before it gets dark."


	18. Chapter 18

The thick black smoke slowly became a distant reflection in the rearview mirror of the _LaCrosse_ he was driving. It had taken them a few hours to clear the rice factory of all those corpses, he was not sure how many, but he knew it had been more than they would have wanted. The evening came, and Paul had asked him to take the boys to the town, while he stayed to watch the fire consuming what was left of those bodies with its characteristic crackling sound.

"This smoke will be visible for miles" the archer said gravely.

"That's why I'm staying."

That's why he was staying, _of course_ , to act as bait in case the saviors appeared there to check what was going on, and to distract them, and keep them away from the town so the rest of them could settle peacefully in the same house they had occupied days ago, and wait blithely for the sun to rise again, like they were in a fucking summer camp.

Daryl wanted to oppose it, and doubted anyone would have been surprised by it, but it would've been a waste of time. He was more than aware that the damned hippie chatterbox would not change his mind, and night was falling more quickly than he was able to control his impatience—he had to get the kids out of there before they became an easy target in the midst of darkness. So they crowded together in the cars and drove off, leaving the scout behind.

In the house the atmosphere was tense and angry, evidence that everyone understood the gravity of what had happened in the rice factory. The group had settled in the small room, some of them in the couches and chairs, others on the dusty carpet, but no one said anything, there was only silence, and serious and tired expressions.

"He has no right to throw me out," Wesley said after a while.

"Please… shut up," Mandy blurted out.

"He has no right," he repeated, raising his voice, "I'm sick, who the hell does he think he is? He doesn't rule Hilltop."

"Wesley stop, okay?" Eduardo intervened, "you made a mistake, a very serious mistake, accept it and let it go."

"We have no experience in this, what did he expect would happen?"

"Wesley, just… enough."

"No, dammit!" he exclaimed, getting up, "if this dickhead hadn't gotten stuck in the middle, nothing would've happened! We had the situation under control!"

"That's not true!" Owen defended himself.

"You just did it to show off," Wesley snapped, moving toward him.

Eduardo, Mandy and Marcus stood up to stop him.

"Fucking arselicker, what are you expecting, eh? You want to drop your pants for Jesus, just like Alex?"

"Calm the fuck down!" Eduardo asked, pushing him back.

"Don't fucking touch me!"

The rest of the group rose alarmed.

"Hey, hey!" Daryl exclaimed, entering the room, and standing in the middle of the commotion, "Shut up! The town's free of walkers, but yer gonna attract them if ya keep screamin' like a bunch of idiots. Remember we ain't just hidin' from the dead—so shut the fuck up!"

A few minutes later Daryl sat in the same room, and in the same chair he had occupied a few weeks ago when he and Paul had stayed there alone. He couldn't help but remember that couple of days; his anger with the scout because he had confessed to have fooled him and Rick, and then how that damned chatterbox had asked him to stop behaving like a kamikaze. He had wanted to kick his ass, or to see the mattress in his room swallow him like in a horror movie—he wouldn't have given two shits as long as he hadn't had to listen to him again. And now, there he was, scanning the night's thick darkness, trying to find a sign that told him everything was fine at the factory.

Suddenly, a strange figure caught his attention. It was in the middle of the street, moving with erratic steps. Daryl huffed to himself and got up to take a better look. There were at least four walkers, and he thought he saw a fifth silhouette in the dark. _Fuck_. They must have followed the roar of the engines, and then the yells might have brought them there. He had to kill them before they attracted the attention of others.

Daryl went downstairs and told the boys.

"Owen, you're coming with me," he said.

The boy didn't protest, and both took to the streets to take care of the creatures. They did it easily, but Daryl preferred to ensure that there were no more, so they walked through the dark streets to check they didn't have more guests that night. _We are more than enough, already._

"I'm sorry about what happened in the factory," Owen said after a while.

"Wasn't your fault, and we shouldn't talk 'bout it here. You have to keep all your senses around you. Remember, they can come outta nowhere."

An hour and a half later, Daryl and Owen returned to the house. They had only found two more walkers, but that was it. Before climbing the stairs to the porch, the archer realized that there were fresh tire tracks in the land surrounding the house. When they got inside, Mandy informed him that Paul had arrived.

"I think he's in the attic."

Even before he could process the information, he was already climbing the stairs, and as Mandy had told him, he found the scout in the attic's small terrace, and just as the last time they'd been there, he found him sitting on the folding camping chair with his legs crossed and resting on the railing. It hasn't been that long since that and yet everything seemed incredibly different now.

Daryl came out, with his eyes on the irregular silhouette of the distant hills. He felt a cool breeze whipping his face that he hadn't noticed outside just a moment ago. Then he turned, leaning his back against the railing, making it creak with the weight of his body, and watching the scout. Paul fixed his eyes forward, like he hadn't noticed his presence at all, and his expression was still so tough that he looked like a stone statue.

"You mad at me?" the archer asked.

Paul blinked slightly and his eyes met Daryl's, though he didn't move a single muscle of his face.

"You should control that temper of yours," he said in a calm but serious tone. Then he sighed, visibly exhausted, and rolled his shoulders like his body had suddenly come to life. "But I'm not mad at you. Owen could be dead right now, even Wesley and Oscar… I can't stop thinking about how I would've appeared in front of his mother to break the news." Then he laughed, though it was a halfhearted sound, "fuck… spending so much time with you has made me a real pessimist."

"And I've become an optimist—the world's definitely ending."

There was a moment when neither of them said anything, Paul had returned his gaze somewhere far away, while that archer watched the outline of the house lit with the moonlight.

"Ya know what I think?" Daryl said suddenly, getting the scout's attention again, "you'll go crazy if you keep carryin' so many responsibilities on your shoulders—and no offense, but you're too puny to hold all that weight."

That had managed to draw a half smile on the scout's face, "you're right… the world's ending" Paul said, "but _no offense_ , this _puny_ man could kick your ass at any time, don't forget that."

They both laughed quietly and said nothing else for a while, until Paul yawned.

"Go rest," Daryl said, "I'll keep watch."

To the archer's surprise, the scout rose, uncomplaining, and moved, dodging the chair, passing close, very close, to him. The archer could feel the heat of his body like an invisible wave crashing against the cool breeze whipping his neck. Their eyes met for what he was sure had been just a few seconds, but it looked like everything was moving in slow motion suddenly. He could see a smile forming in the corner of Paul's mouth, though it was his gaze what sent an electric chill throughout his body, and he felt an increasing and unexpected pressure in his groin. _Fuck_. Daryl looked away, he was sure that damn cat-charming hippie pothead was doing it on purpose, but when he laid his eyes on him again, the scout was already near the door and disappeared, swallowed up by the darkness inside the attic.

Daryl closed his eyes, hand to his face as he let out the air he hadn't been aware he was holding in his lungs. Then he sat in the folding chair, and let the night breeze hit his cheeks, trying to regain what little sanity he had left.

* * *

They left the town with the first rays of sun, trunks full of rice, in a trip they intended to go straight, no stops halfway except to fill the tanks.

Luckily enough everything went well, and almost six hours later Hilltop's walls appeared in the distance welcoming them again. Daryl felt some relief, a calm which soon vanished as they went through the high gates and entered the colony. There was still smoke coming from the pyre near the entrance, and there were people around it with serious and afflicted faces. Gregory was halfway between the mansion and the gates, hands on his hips. It was obvious that someone had warned him of their arrival and he was there waiting for them intentionally.

Paul was the first to get off the car, followed by everyone else. The scout walked up to Gregory with firm, quick steps.

"What happened?" he asked as he reached him.

"You left us unprotected, that's what happened," the gray-haired man replied with a lacerating discontent.

Daryl could see Paul throwing his head back slightly, surprised by the man's strong response.

"Harlan thinks Henry might have suffered a heart attack two days ago, worried by his absence Aurora went to check if he was fine, and you can imagine what she found," Gregory paused briefly to ensure that the scout, and the rest, listened intently. Maggie, Tara and Rosita, who seemed to have arrived before them, appeared behind him. "He killed her, but inexplicably nobody noticed, nobody heard anything, until they appeared in the vegetable gardens and attacked Trevor. Do you realize the disaster that we could have faced? We were totally helpless."

"That's not true!" Maggie interrupted. "The situation was brought under control as soon as we realized what was happening. Tara, Kal, Marcus and Rosita resolved the problem without any major incidents."

"Three people dead is not enough?" Gregory blurted facing her.

"It would've happened anyway, even if they'd been here."

"Excuse me, correct me if I'm wrong _Natalie_ , but you don't have a say here, you're just a guest, and I dare to say, not even that. You're here because of the compassion of this colony, which of course is not going abandon a helpless pregnant woman. However, I can't say the same for your friends, so don't provoke me."

Daryl moved, ready to shut that bastard up for daring to talk to Maggie like that, but Paul had stopped him, and it was him who walked forward to face his boss.

"I'm the responsible for this whole situation" the scout said, "if you have something to say, it's better you talk to me."

Gregory turned to face him, "of course, I want to see you in my office now."

With those words the man walked away heading to Barrington House. Paul sighed, and stepped forward, but Daryl stopped him, grabbing him by his arm before he could move.

"You don't have to explain anythin' to this idiot."

"Of course not."

And it was obvious, because he could see it in his bright eyes, that he was not doing it for Gregory, he did it for his people and for them. Daryl released him and didn't take his eyes off him until his figure disappeared inside the mansion.

* * *

Some had spent part of the afternoon helping to clean up the pyre between moans and sobs. Others took up the task of storing the rice sacks they had brought. When Daryl finally got to his room, he felt the fatigue adhering to every inch of his body, and all he wanted was to have a smoke, but the package was empty; though he had sworn that he still had one left. He searched his pockets, in case it had fallen there, but he found neither that nor the lighter. The archer closed his eyes and cursed.

When he poked his head in the viewpoint, he found Paul sitting, with his back facing the stairs, and doing something, probably rolling a joint with the only cigarette he had left. Daryl passed him and walked toward one of the windows, even if he could only see the darkness outside, then he turned to look at the scout, who hadn't taken his eyes off his little rolled treasure.

"I s'pose you don't know anythin' about my cigarettes and lighter, right?" The scout didn't say a word. "Ask for permission 'fore you take others' things, ain't considered good manners."

Paul looked up, put the spliff between his lips, lit it, and then reached out a hand to return the lighter to him.

"Keep it," the archer said in a deep voice, and waving a hand in the air.

"I don't have any more weed; I don't need it."

Daryl took the lighter and sat on the floor in front of him. Paul stared at him for a moment, then rose from his chair and sat by his side.

" _God_ … I needed this," he said releasing the smoke, accompanying it with a deep sigh, as he vigorously rubbed his eyes.

"Don't understand why you keep listenin' to him," the archer said.

"I've already told you…"

The scout took a couple of deeper puffs and then leaned to the archer, their shoulders brushing, as he placed the spliff before him. Daryl just had to lean forward slightly to place it between his lips, and he was very close to doing so, but he finally reached up a hand and caught it with his fingers.

"Relax, Daryl" the scout said, whispering in his ear.

"Ain't used to this shit."

"What shit?"

"Being conscious of myself—don't know what to do or what to say, or if someone will notice."

"And who cares?"

"I do."

"You care because you're worried about what others may think. You know that those who love you are not going to judge you, and the rest… well, fuck the rest," he said, taking the cigarette from Daryl's fingers and placing it back in his mouth.

"Hey! Hadn't even hit it yet."

"Time is running out, archer, and you've lost enough already."

Daryl was aware that the damn cat-charming hippie pothead was not talking about the spliff he was smoking with long and intense drags.

"When was the last time you had sex?" Paul asked.

The archer turned to face him, raising an eyebrow, "You really askin' me that?"

"Do you have hearing problems, old man? If you'd prefer to talk about Gregory, I have a lot of shit to say about him, but frankly I don't want to waste a single second of my time thinking about that arrogant asshole, and the clock is ticking, you know?"

"And there's nothin' else to talk about."

"Our last conversations have been quite intense, let's talk about banal things for once… but okay, if you don't want to talk about sex, tell me when was the last time you got drunk, let's start with that."

"Was here, with you."

"You weren't drunk."

"It's true, you were drunker than me."

"I was just a bit tipsy."

"You can't hold your liquor…"

"I'll let you test my endurance whenever you want."

Daryl took the spliff and put it to his lips, "are we still talkin' about alcohol?" the archer asked, aware of the double meaning of his words.

"We can talk about whatever you want."

"Okay—the last time I got drunk, like for real, was jus' before my brother and I ran away from the fuckin' mess the world became. We were at a seedy bar and don't know how we ended up in that woman's house. Actually, I think that was the last time I had a shag, though I hardly remember it—there you have your two answers."

The scout whistled lightly, "That's a lot of time."

"Yeah… but I've been busy, you know? Getting' my ass and the rest safe. And the women from the group… respect them too much to think 'bout them that way. And the men… they're my brothers—and anyway, sex ain't something I've thought 'bout during this time—don't know, it's like my body brushed off that need."

"Until now…"

"'Til now, 'cause you won't stop going on with your questions and bullshit."

"Okay, okay… my turn: the last time was the night you came here to apologize after you punched me."

"Yeah, and it didn't look like you were too satisfied—man, the shit you threw in my face that night…"

"I was more than satisfied, thank you, and you needed that slap urgently."

Daryl took a drag of the cigarette and handed it back to the scout, "I remember you were crying that night," the archer said, lowering his voice.

"Yeah, well… it was about to be six months since Abbie had left us," Paul let out the smoke, shrugging. "You know, Ben had bought her that book, the book of fables, and I don't know why but I hadn't thought about him for a long time until a couple of days after that. Not that I'd forgotten him, it's just…" he exhaled loudly, "I don't know."

"What was he like?"

"Thought this was gonna be a banal conversation"

"You said we could talk 'bout what I wanted."

"You don't want to know that."

"I'm askin'."

Paul was silent for a moment, staring at nothing in particular as he smoked slowly, like he was thinking about his answer. Suddenly Daryl wanted to tell him there was no need to reply, because the hippie chatterbox might be right, actually, and he didn't want to know who Ben was, that man the scout had loved so much.

"Ben was a disaster in the kitchen," he said, then turned to pass the joint, "he couldn't fry an egg without it looking like a battlefield. He was also very messy, he left his clothes all over the place—pants, shirts, socks. He had to buy socks at least twice a month because _Emmes_ took them all. He was the most unpunctual person in the world, and it got on my nerves every time I had to meet him somewhere. Then there was this thing he did with his teeth when he slept; most mornings he got up with a terrible jaw pain, until he went to the doctor and told him he had bruxism, and he had to sleep with a splint, which is something similar to what boxers used to use. It was not exactly a very erotic look especially when we were in bed," Paul laughed suddenly, "it's not that he used it when we were… he took it off when… well, you get the idea," he paused, thoughtfully. "Ben had the cutest nose I've ever seen, I know it sounds weird, but he always complained that he had a big nose, and that kids at school made fun of him. But I liked him just like that, with his big nose, his messy hair, his bite plate, and lack of skills in the kitchen—because above all he was a beautiful person, inside and outside. He was very caring, honest and tender, and he was really good with kids. He loved Abbie, and Abbie adored him."

Daryl listened attentively, and though the scout had tried to sound calm, almost indifferent, he could hear the emotion in his voice, not only when he talked about Ben, but also Abbie. Again, he wanted to ask about her, to ask what had happened, but he was sure that Paul would shake off that question as he had done before.

The archer passed him the spliff and Paul caught it, staying silent for a long time, and Daryl couldn't help but think that it might've been better to have not asked the question, not only because he knew that remembering Ben affected the scout, though he tried to pretend otherwise, but also because he felt a strange weight on his stomach, and he recalled that moment, in the abandoned farm, when the chatterbox had told him he was not his type. Daryl had taken it as a simple joke, because that was his damn playful nature. But now, listening to him talk about Ben, he realized that he, in fact, was nothing like the person he described with such admiration, and that caused him a distress he failed to understand.

He sighed.

Who the hell was he trying to kid? Of course he understood why he was feeling that way, because that damned cat-charming hippie pothead was getting inside of his life the same way a tsunami claims the coastline, and just like that killer wave, he realized he was unable to stop it, and that terrified him.

"Did he have a favorite band?"

He asked without even being aware the words had slipped from his lips. And he cursed himself for it, because of course he knew that Ben would have had a favorite band, because that was what normal people did, not weirdos like him.

Paul looked at him frowning, because not even he understood why he kept asking those questions.

"He was a big Radiohead fan," the scout said, looking away and watching the spliff he held between his fingers, "but when we smoked weed, he liked to play all sorts of silly songs, and there was this thing he liked to do to me, he uh—"

The scout then stopped suddenly.

"What?"

"Nothing, it was—it was just a game."

"What was it?"

"Daryl, really, it doesn't matter, I don't understand why are we having this conversation."

"What? Think you gonna shock the redneck if ya tell him?"

"Daryl, is not that—"

"Do it to me."

"What?"

"You said it was jus' a game, do it to me."

"Daryl—"

"Maybe I might not have as much experience as you do, but ain't the hick you probably think."

"I don't think you're—" the scout sighed in exasperation. "okay, okay."

Paul moved slightly, just enough to face Daryl, "hope you don't run after this," he said in a small voice.

The scout raised his hand and placed the cigar up to Daryl's lips, ready for the archer to take a drag without using his hands.

"Come on…" Paul encouraged him.

Daryl hesitated for a few seconds, and then he moved slightly to take the spliff between his lips; sucking the smoke into his mouth.

"Fill your cheeks…" Paul said softly, "and hold it for a second."

Then Paul removed the cigar and leaned forward until his face was just a few inches from him, and Daryl didn't need Paul to say anything else, because the archer breathed deeply, almost unconsciously, pouring out the smoke that ran the short distance between them like an arrow, crashing directly into the scout's mouth. Daryl felt the soft touch of Paul's lips against him as he inhaled the smoke. It was a brief and insignificant contact, but his heart started to pound fast, firing his blood like an electric current directly to the most sensitive part of his body.

Daryl shifted uncomfortably as he felt the pressure in his pants, but he was unable to take his eyes off the scout, who was still there, face still too close to his. Until he finally pulled away and sat down again next to him.

Silence filled the tiny space around them, and no one said anything for what seemed like hours. The scout still smoked what remained of the joint, until he gave it to Daryl and rose from the ground.

"I should go," he said then, walking to the spiral staircase.

"Well… look who's runnin' in the end…" Daryl snapped hoarsely.

Paul turned to face him, "I'm not running," he said, his voice sounded tired, "That was a silly thing to do, I shouldn't have done it… I don't want to confuse you any more than you probably are already, and these last few days have been a whirlwind for me—maybe you're right and I need to get some sleep."

Paul stood there a moment, probably expecting some response from Daryl, but there were no words in his throat, his mind has gone completely blank—or maybe it was the fact that all his blood was concentrated in one single part of his body. Whatever it was, he thought he heard a goodnight from the scout who turned around and went down the stairs leaving him alone.

* * *

The moans bounced as silk threads against the walls of the room. Their warm breaths met in the air as their lips brushed against each other, stealing light kisses with every movement of their bodies. Their skin glistened with sweat under the silvery moonlight coming through the window. Paul stroked his back with his fingertips, following the line of his spine. Ben responded to the touch throwing his head back, eyes closed and hands resting against Paul's chest, as he moved over him with an increasingly intense and impatient rhythm.

"God, Paul…"

He could feel Ben's body tremble—he was close too, his breath ragged with the passing seconds. Paul gripped Ben's ass and pushed him against the mattress, dropping his weight on top of him and taking control of the situation, moving in and out with a voracious craving, as he captured Ben's mouth, their tongues dancing fiercely, drowning the moans caught in their throats.

Paul broke away from Ben, resting his elbows on the sheets, on both sides of his friend and lover, pumping against his body as Ben wrapped his legs around his hips joining his movements. And he watched those blue eyes that stared back at him with lust, but those blue eyes were not Ben's, those blue eyes were Daryl's, almost hidden under his wet hair stuck to his face like a second skin. Paul blinked, confused, and his heart beat harder than he ever imagined it could.

 _Paul?_

 _Paul…_

 _Wake up._

Paul opened his eyes, jumping on the bed—the light coming through the windows blinded him for a moment, but he could see a silhouette standing beside his bed. He rubbed his face trying to help his retinas to get used to the light of day, and blinked until the blurry figure took shape before him. It was Maggie. Paul sat up slightly clutching the sheets almost unconsciously, to cover his waist and hide the telltale erection pressing painfully against his pants.

"What's up?" he asked, tearing the words.

"Are you okay? It looked like you were having a pretty intense… dream"

Paul blushed like a child who had been caught doing something bad, "yeah, I um—I don't know, I haven't slept very well these last few weeks…" he said, clearing his throat as he sat up.

Maggie sat on the bed next to him, "I'm sorry to have come into your room and wake you up like this, but I think Gregory is going to be a problem. I know yesterday you were able to appease his anger, but Brianna heard him say he wants Daryl, Tara and Rosita out of the house. I know it's unfair to ask you this, you have stuck up for us enough already, but I know that despite your discrepancies, he listens to you."

Paul sighed audibly, "don't worry Maggie, I'll talk to him."

Maggie smiled, but she stayed there looking into his eyes, like she was trying to scrutinize something within his mind.

"You sure you're okay?" she asked again.

"Guess I'm just tired…"

"I'm not surprised…" Maggie patted his hand tenderly, "you need to give yourself a break, Paul."

"Maybe—unfortunately, there's no time for that."

"I know… anyway, if you need to, you know you can talk to me."

Paul smiled, "thank you."

Maggie stood up, ready to leave the room, but turned to look back at him before reaching the door, "is everything okay with Daryl?"

Paul felt like the air stopped suddenly, forming a ball in his throat.

"Yeah… why?"

"Daryl can be tricky sometimes, and I know you both have had some disagreements… I don't know, I thought I heard you say his name… in your sleep."

Paul felt such an intense heat rising on his face that he would probably have thrown fire out of his ears if it has been possible. He looked away trying to hide the embarrassment he was feeling, but he knew it was too late and useless. Then he felt a weight on the edge of the bed, where Maggie sat again.

"I don't know what's going on, Maggie," he confessed honestly.

"I've noticed a change in him, can't tell what it is, but I see a different light in his eyes since he spends so much time with you. Honestly, I don't know what's going on between you both and I don't want venture myself…" she said, bending the corner of her lips slightly, "but whatever it is… I'm glad you're there, and like I said, you can talk to me."

Paul simply nodded, unable to express all the feelings running through his head in that moment. Maggie gave him a sympathetic smile, then she got up and left the room.

After taking a cold shower, Paul went in search of Nicholas, _The Smoker_. Not that he was the only one in the colony that, even after the world ended, had been unable to give up the habit, but he was one of those people who could put aside a meal in exchange for a cigarette. Paul brought him all the boxes he found when he was on a run, so he didn't think he would have problems to persuade him to give him a spare package.

"How can I pay you?" the scout asked anyway.

"Come on, Jesus! You could say all these cigarettes are as much yours as they are mine, but if you can bring me more next time you go out, I'd appreciate it," he replied framing his yellow teeth in a big smile.

Paul found Daryl on Barrington House's porch and as soon as he laid eyes on him his heart started to beat so fast that he felt nauseous. He took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure and when the scout got closer he showed him the pack of cigarettes. Daryl looked at him with a frown.

"I owe you," Paul said.

"You only owe me two cigarettes."

"Take it as an investment, then."

Daryl hesitated but then he took the package, opened it, pulled out a cigarette and placed it on his lips, "you know? I was seriously considerin' quittin'," he said, lighting it up, "hope you feel guilty."

"I'll flagellate myself for it."

Daryl let out the smoke, distracted, looking around, avoiding Paul's eyes on purpose, "you should go get ready, we're goin' to the shootin' range."

"Not going with you today."

Daryl looked at him, frowning, "why?"

"I have to talk to Gregory."

"Again?" the archer asked irritated.

"Yeah… again," he said without mentioning what Maggie had told him. "And there are things to do here—but I'll tell you where it's located."

"Are you going to practice with weapons today?"

The two turned when they heard Owen's voice.

"Yes…"

"Oh, shit…"

"What's up?" Paul asked.

"I can't go to the training today," Owen said, ruefully, "Mom is not feeling well, have to stay to look after her."

"What's wrong? Have you told Harlan?"

"Yes, yes, it seems that's only a stomach virus, but there's some things she wants to do and she can't get out of bed."

"Don't worry, take care of your mum," Daryl said, "If we're back early, I'll give you some private lessons."

"Really? thanks!" Owen said, drawing a huge smile.

"That was really nice of you," Paul said gently the moment Owen turned away.

"He's a good kid" Daryl replied, shrugging.

 _And you're a great person, even if you don't want to see it_ , Paul was about to say, but Rosita and Tara appeared on the porch.

"We going?"

Daryl looked at the scout.

"I'll bring a map with the location…"

After the groups left the colony, Paul went to Gregory's office. The man still showed a deep discontent for what had happened the day before, though he had accepted Paul's explanations about the training they were carrying out, and how important it was for the colony to have more people prepared and ready to protect it if necessary. But Maggie had been right, Gregory wanted Daryl, Tara and Rosita out of Barrington House.

"This is not a hotel," he had said, "they're not members of this community, if they want to stay they will have to work for us—these walls' security have a cost."

Paul sighed, tired, and he reminded Gregory that what they were doing, could already be considered a job in favor of the community. The gray-haired man had been reluctant to simply accept that as payment, but Paul finally managed to convince him, even if he insisted he wanted to see them leave the mansion.

"Make them clean up one of the new empty trailers, they should be fine with that."

The scout had no other choice but to agree, and he assured him that he would communicate that to them as soon as they were back.

"I'll go to the trailer with them," Maggie said as Paul told her what he had spoken with Gregory.

"Maggie… you're better in the house."

"I'm not gonna leave them alone."

"You're not leaving them alone, and I'm sure they would prefer you to stay in your room, the trailer is already too small for three people…"

Maggie accepted Paul's words reluctantly, and then turned away to head back to the vegetable gardens. Meanwhile, the scout helped to clean up the trailer that, until a couple of days ago, had belonged to Henry. He had lived there with his wife and son. His wife, Angela, suffered a serious illness and had died only a year after their arrival at Hilltop. Henry and his son, Tom, had felt her loss tremendously, though it seemed it was Tom who was having a harder time overcoming it. One day he went out with a group to search for supplies, and in a moment he separated from them, and since then no one heard from him ever again. There were those who ventured to say that he had left to commit suicide, but generally they opted not to say anything about the incident in deference to Henry. His trailer would have served to accommodate another family, but no one had dared to ask him to leave it.

In the afternoon and after getting the trailer ready, Paul went to where Owen lived with his mother to check how she was doing. Amelia was sitting on a tiny table in the kitchen.

"How do you feel?"

"I'm better, Owen is helping me a lot, despite being upset about not being able to go out today with the rest of the group" Amelia took a sip of the hot drink she had in her hands, then fixed her eyes on Paul. "I know what you're doing… Owen has told me."

Paul opened his mouth to say something but thought better when he saw Amelia shook her head from side to side.

"I can't approve it, you understand that, right?"

"It's not an easy decision, I know."

"Owen is a tremendously generous kid and would do anything to help anyone in need, and it's obvious this community needs help, and you can't do it all alone, Jesus," Amelia paused. "Of course it's not an easy decision, but unfortunately, I can't stop him. He is old enough to make his own decisions, and though very few dare to say it aloud, we all want to see those savages disappear. I know it would be very selfish for me to keep my son here while others do the dirty work, right? I've seen Rory's mother secretly mourning in shame, and it's not fair. "

Paul nodded.

"Don't let Gregory tell you otherwise, Jesus, the people from Alexandria are helping us a lot, they controlled the situation yesterday, and I've seen Maggie suggest things that would be very beneficial for Hilltop… This community needs a change, I know you know, and many of us are on your side," Amelia placed her palm over Paul's, "thought you needed to know."

Paul looked at the woman for a few seconds, "and I just came here to ask if you needed something…" Amelia smiled. "I appreciate your words—I'm convinced that things have to change, so I'm glad to know that more people think the same way."

Then there was a soft knock on the door, and Alex entered the trailer when Amelia gave him permission to do so. The nurse could barely suppress a surprised face when he saw the scout there, but his attention quickly turned to the woman.

"I brought some serum, but I see you're looking better."

"I was taking something hot right now."

"That's good, you need to drink a lot."

Paul apologized and gave them some privacy while Alex examined Owen's mother, but when he left the trailer he saw Ken running toward him, so alarmed, that didn't let him time to ask what was happening.

"Saviors!" Ken yelled.

"What?"

"Saviors! They're coming this way!"

Paul's heart stopped for a moment.

"Fuck…" he heard Alex's voice behind him.

"Run," he told the nurse, "go to the house and tell Gregory not to leave."

Alex didn't think twice and ran toward Barrington House. Around him, Paul could see his people abandoning their tasks, and crowding in the middle of the colony, looking at the gates with fear and worry in their eyes.

"Okay… listen!" he said out loud, "go back to your trailers or the house, but stay away from the gates, now!"

The crowd began to move quickly, the air was thick with tension, and while some of them tried to hide behind the weak steel walls of their homes, others ran toward the mansion.

Among all the chaos of bodies running in all directions, Paul could see Maggie's figure dodging the crowd, and walking toward him.

"Maggie, go back to the house!"

"No way! I won't let you face them alone."

Paul wanted to protested but knew it was futile and they didn't have time to waste, so he approached the gates accompanied by Maggie, Ken and Eduardo, who was on duty that day. When they reached them, they could already hear the roar of the car engine on the other side and immediately after they heard a loud banging against the metal sheets.

"Open! Now!" someone shouted.

Paul gestured to the guards at the watch point, and the doors started to move with a sharp crack, revealing gradually the figures waiting on the other side of the walls.

Paul immediately recognized the 4x4, there were at least six armed men, placed in front of the vehicle. The car lights were on, so they were just silhouettes under the headlights, and the dim and orange light of sunset. But Paul knew it was him, he knew the man at the head of the group was that Vulture fucker, and he was the first one to move as soon as the doors creak stopped. He walked with firm steps until they could see him clearly, a huge smile planted on his face and carrion bird eyes riveted on Paul.

"I'm so glad to see you're back."


	19. Chapter 19

The return to Hilltop—after a day at the shooting range, had been quiet and Daryl felt that, for once, things had started to work out. To their training session, they had taken only those who had demonstrated true qualities and skills, and being able to work without the interruptions of the laggards had helped, significantly, the progress of the others.

Many of them didn't have experience with weapons, but had adapted quickly to having the pistols and rifles in their hands, and had improved their techniques considerably during the course of the day. They had even managed to kill, quick and coordinated, the walkers that had been attracted by the noise of the bullets.

Daryl was eager to get to the colony and inform Paul about the great progress of the boys, but the enthusiasm disappeared as quickly as Hilltop's walls got bigger as they approached them, and realized with puzzlement, that its high gates didn't open to welcome them as was usual.

"This is weird…" Kal said at his side, "they had to have seen us already."

Only a few minutes later the archer stopped the car in front of the metal sheets, followed by Rosita and Tara. Daryl and Kal got out of the vehicle and watched, confused, that the watch point was empty.

"What's going on?" Tara asked, approaching them.

The rest of the boys had also come down from their vehicles and none of them seemed to understand what was happening. Nothing strange could be heard that indicated something may be wrong, but they knew that given the circumstances, they shouldn't be overconfident.

Daryl turned around, ready to give them some brief indications, when they heard a noise and saw Eduardo appear over their heads.

"They're back, open the gates!" He said without giving them a second to ask any questions.

The metal sheets started to move soon after, and the groups returned to their cars with the confusion still reflected on their faces.

"Something must have happened, I'm sure," Kal said as he sat back in the car.

Daryl clenched his jaw but said nothing and the moment the doors left enough space, the archer stepped on the accelerator and entered the community followed by others.

Near Barrington House he saw Maggie waiting for them, and the woman came to meet them even before they had turned off their cars. The sobriety and paleness on her face indicated that, indeed, they shouldn't expect good news.

"What happened?" the archer asked when Maggie was close enough.

Tara, Rosita and the rest joined them, waiting to hear what Maggie had to say and she didn't waste any time.

"The saviors came."

All, without exception, let out a loud gasp, a murmur that filled the air with a sound that oozed concern.

"Have they done anything?" Andy asked quickly.

"No, they haven't done anything," Maggie said. "Listen, we talked with them and for the moment they're gone—of course, this doesn't mean they won't come back, but everything is okay, right now. Go back with your families, I'm sure that you may be tired and you'll want to eat something."

Daryl had no doubt that Maggie was simply trying to reassure them, but he knew her well, and could guess, just by looking at her, that her words were just an excuse for the group to go away so they could talk privately about what had happened, because it was obvious that there was something else she didn't want to talk about in front of them all.

Reticent, the boys started to walk away and Maggie didn't pronounce herself again until there were only the four of them.

"I have something to tell you," she said then, "Gregory has asked to reallocate you—he doesn't want you to stay in the house. Paul has spoken to him, but this time he hasn't been able to make him come to his senses. To avoid further problems, Brianna has taken Enid in her home."

"What?" Tara said with a frown.

" _Capullo gilipollas_ …" Rosita snapped.

Daryl sighed audibly, "what happened with the saviors?"

"I'll show you the trailer they've prepared for you," Maggie said, like she hadn't heard the question.

"Maggie, what happened with the saviors?" he asked again.

"Let's go to the trailer and talk there…" she said, hardening her tone.

Daryl then looked around, it was getting dark but it was still quite early for people to have taken shelter in their homes already, and yet there was hardly anyone hanging around the colony. Nor was there any trace of Paul, and that was definitely strange, because he knew Maggie had been there, waiting for them, and if something serious had happened, something she didn't want to talk about right there for fear of being heard, he was surprised that the scout hadn't been there with her to inform them.

They walked together to the trailer that was away from the house and near the hospital trailer.

"Damn… this place is fucking small," Rosita said as they entered.

"You've slept in worse places than this," Daryl sputtered.

The archer turned to look back to Maggie with eager eyes.

"What happened?" he asked for the third time since they'd arrived.

Maggie took a deep breath, "Paul talked with them and, in his own way, he managed to make them go away—probably sooner than they expected."

"The hell means _in is own way_?"

"It looked like he knew the group's leader."

Daryl closed his eyes and sighed, "a fucker called Vulture?"

"Yeah… you know him?"

"We ran into that group when we went to Alexandria."

In that moment his mind went back to that day and recalled the arrogance with which they have addressed them, and the way that fool had to trait and humiliate Paul. And his knife… that fucking bastard had taken his bloody knife.

"That Vulture guy started to make demands, acting all fiery, he said they came to re-negotiate the deal, but Paul told them he was not going to talk about it with a bunch of simple emissaries. Then the guy hit him, we wanted to intervene but it was useless. Then he asked to see Gregory, Paul said that Gregory was dead, but I guess they sensed that wasn't true… they wanted to come inside and check the entire colony, but Paul stopped him, the guy was ready to hit him again and… I don't know, it all happened very fast, a second that prick was standing and the next he was on the floor, Paul on top of him, pointing his own gun at him. Then Paul told them that if they wanted to renegotiate, Negan should have to show up in person. And they left."

"Just like that?" Tara asked.

"Yes."

"Fuck…" Daryl huffed.

"They'll come back," Tara continued.

"Of course they will," Maggie said, "and I doubt they'll come with just a group of six people."

"Well, let them come, then!" Rosita blurted, "we're better prepared, now. We'll train more intensely these days if necessary, but we're not letting them cross these walls."

Daryl shook his head from side to side, "hafta talk with that fuckin' crazy little man," then he walked toward the door.

"That's not possible," Daryl turned to nail his eyes on Maggie, "he's not here… he's gone after them."

For a moment Daryl went blank as he watched Maggie barely flinching, though the truth was that deep down, and unfortunately, the news didn't even catch him by surprise. The thing that amazed him the most was the fact that the scout kept thinking that plan was a good idea. But that's how he was, a reckless and carefree little man, who placed the lives of others before his own, and that was starting to irritate Daryl above anything else, because his life was as important as the rest, though no one else seemed to care. He was not going to leave him alone, because maybe that damned cat-charming hippie pothead didn't care if he didn't saw the end of all of this, if at least he helped to beat Negan—as he himself had said—but Paul deserved to be there, and Daryl _needed_ him to be there.

"Why didja let him go?" the archer asked.

"Why would I stop him?" Maggie said, "this was part of the plan—follow them and find out where they're hiding. We need that information, Daryl, and you know it."

"We also need him!"

For a moment there was only silence inside the trailer, the three women looked at him with wide eyes. Glances that said more than any words that could come out of their mouths, but Daryl didn't care anymore. Yes, he was worried and scared knowing that Paul was out there alone, following those savages commanded by a lunatic who had managed to draw on Rick, one of the strongest people he knew, the most vivid expression of panic he had ever seen.

"Fuck this!" he said and walked toward the door.

"Daryl, wait!" Tara exclaimed grabbing him by his arm.

"No! He needs help!"

"Don't be stupid, Daryl, Jesus can take care of himself, and this place needs all the people it can get." Rosita intervened.

Maggie approached him, calmly, almost like Paul would've done, and gently stroked his arm.

"Hey, I understand how you feel…" Daryl sighed, grunting and looking away. "Hey… listen to me, Daryl… even if you think otherwise, I'm worried too, but I trust him, I know he'll be able to do this."

Daryl shook his head again, "that asshole hasn't slept in weeks as he's been dealin' with the saviors, Alexandria, Hilltop, that Gregory idiot and all of us."

Maggie sighed slightly and lowered her gaze. It was obvious that she also was aware of all the weight and responsibilities that damned chatterbox had been carrying on his shoulders.

Maggie turned to look at Tara and Rosita.

"How long it's been since he left?" Tara asked.

"An hour and a half, maybe more."

Rosita made a sound with her mouth, "he could be anywhere."

"I'll try to follow his trail," Daryl said.

"Don't be a fool, I don't think Jesus has laid a trail of white pebbles," Tara said.

"I could take you."

The four turned quickly when they heard the intruding voice and found Owen by the door. None of them had heard him come in and the young man seemed intimidated when he noticed all the eyes on him.

"Sorry, I called but—"

"Ya know where he is?" Daryl asked impatiently.

"I followed him," he said, "followed him for about twenty-five miles west, then I lost track… but I could take you there, are sure you could follow his trail from there? You're good at that, right?"

Daryl looked back at the three women like he was waiting for their approval, though deep down he already knew what he was going to do.

"No," Maggie said suddenly, "if you're willing to go, okay, I know we can't detain you here, but you won't take Owen with you."

"You sure you can show me the way?" the archer asked the boy.

"Daryl, no" Maggie insisted.

"You can take me?" he asked again ignoring Maggie.

"Yeah."

"Daryl, I don't think it's a good idea…" Tara intervened.

"He'll just take me to the place he lost his track," he said walking towards the door, "then he'll return to Hilltop."

* * *

He knew he was doing it again, he knew was acting impulsively, he knew that leaving Hilltop at that time was extremely dangerous, he knew that taking Owen with him was utter madness, and he knew Maggie, Tara and Rosita would have tried to convince him that, indeed, this was an absurd idea. But they were more than aware that arguing was a waste of time, and time was what they needed the most.

And he knew, of course he knew, that it was a sovereign stupidity to leave Hilltop at night, almost as stupid as the plan of that damned cat-charming hippie pothead to enter the saviors' hostile world alone. It was not that he underestimated him, he understood perfectly what the crazy little man was able to do, but he had also seen the weariness in his eyes, he was physically and mentally exhausted because, of course, they all took for granted that _Jesus_ was able to solve all their problems, and no one seemed bothered to make the effort to see that this man, who's real name was actually Paul Monroe, was flesh and blood and also suffered and felt like them all.

"Why didja follow him?" Daryl asked Owen who sat beside him in the car.

Owen didn't respond at first, even Daryl thought the boy ducked his head in shame.

"I don't know," he replied after a while, "I guess, I'm tired of hiding, that's what everyone does while he sticks up for Hilltop again and again. And you all were out, I thought that, maybe, I could help him, but I knew he was not going to let me go with him, so I just followed him. But I guess I should have practiced more with those squirrels…"

Something similar to a smile formed in the corners of Daryl's lips, "you've done well, Owen. Pau… that crazy fucker is a hard nut to crack."

"You think you'll find him?"

The archer didn't answer the question because at the end of the day there was no safe answer, but he was sure that at least he would try, that's why they were there, in that moment, when the night's dark mantle had closed around them.

"I bet he hasn't told you that Gregory didn't want him at Hilltop when he appeared," Owen said after a moment of silence, "he thought he might be dangerous, and he only let him stay because of Abbie. Kicking them both out would've been a scandal, and separating him from the girl would've been impossible," Owen laughed to himself, "I wonder what would've become of that bigheaded coward if it weren't for all the times Jesus has saved his ass since then."

Daryl listened attentively, but said nothing, and they continued on their way a few more miles until Owen pointed to a spot on the road.

"There! There it is. There's a path that goes into the woods, I'm sure he had to hide the car around, but couldn't find it."

Daryl looked at the path that was almost hidden among the trees and continued a few more feet, until he stopped the _LaCrosse_ at the verge and got out followed by Owen.

"Okay, take the car and return to Hilltop, I'll continue on foot."

"What if something happens and you need to escape? I should stay here and wait."

"No way, you're goin' back home."

"I'll hide the car and wait, trust me, I can do it, I'm ready."

"Owen, won't argue with you, not here, take the fuckin' car and go away if you don't wanna be tied to the top of a tree."

"What was all that training then? You'll gonna send me home when we face Negan, too?"

Daryl breathed out, exasperated—he couldn't wait any more time.

"An hour," he said gravelly and pointing the car's digital clock, "hide the car and if in an hour I haven't come back, go—get the hell out, you understand? You have weapons?"

Owen nodded and showed him the knife he carried with him.

"Not enough."

The archer approached the car's trunk and pulled out one of the rifles and pistols they hadn't had time to hide after the day at the shooting range. Then he turned away from Owen and entered the forest, and right away he felt surrounded by an absolute deafening silence. He could only hear his own footsteps crunching the underbrush. The archer closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath trying to ignore his own presence and putting each of his senses in his surroundings.

He moved gingerly and quietly as his eyes began to adjust to the night's darkness, like a nocturnal animal. He drew his knife and with the other hand he felt, like he needed to know it was there, the gun resting in his belt.

He walked for a few feet, looking at all those little twigs and crushed leaves that should stand out subtly over the rest of the thicket around him. But he saw nothing, not only because the moonlight was barely able to break through the leafy treetops, but because, for some reason, he was convinced that Paul hadn't been there.

He stopped for a second trying to get into the damn chatterbox's head, trying to think as he would have done. If he had really gotten there, he would have chosen an easy path to memorize in case he had to flee quickly. Daryl carefully scanned everything around him and then he saw it right there, a few feet from where he was. Partially hidden between the leafiness, there was a tree whose trunk bent and twisted in an impossible dance. The archer got close with light steps and examined the nearest frond—there were crushed leaves making their way in front of him. His heart began to pound and he felt the adrenaline bubbling in his veins. Daryl stood up again and walked determinedly studying everything he could see.

He had been walking into the depths of that forest for at least twenty minutes, leaving behind as many clues as he believed Paul could have followed, until he reached a small clearing and found an old cabin. He walked very carefully around it, though he was convinced that it was empty—the abandonment, and probably the weather, had made that part of the roof had collapsed. But he sensed that Paul had been there because, despite its appearance, the cabin was a feasible place to hide if things went wrong.

Daryl left the cabin, and continued his walk among the wooden giants that rose around him until he heard something. He stopped—putting all his attention into that crunch; it was like something was dragging with difficulty on the ground. He sharpened his ear as much as he could and soon he heard death's halfhearted cries in the air, and a few seconds later he saw a walker moving wandering among the trees. If Paul had been there, he had to have seen it, and yet he hadn't killed it. The archer frowned, puzzled, trying to think of the same possibilities that would have crossed through the scout's head. Perhaps he had followed a different path, or maybe he hadn't finished off the creature because he didn't want to leave any tracks. In that case, it was very likely that the walker was also following his trail.

In that moment he could hear something else under the groans of the walker, it was like an echo of a distant activity. Daryl moved trying not to attract the attention of the dying creature and followed the faint sound.

After some hundred feet he could see a beam of light filtering through the trees. He tried to get close, but suddenly the forest beneath went down into a steep hill. But he could see it, maybe a couple of miles away from there, like it was born in the middle of nowhere, there was a five-storey building, crowned at the top by three large chimneys. It looked like a factory and there were lights, not as many as he had thought at first, but enough to indicate that there was living a large community of people, and Daryl knew that it had to be them, it had to be the saviors.

He moved a little more, following the ridge drawn by the edge of the hill, trying to find a point from which he could take a better look, but he stopped short—his breath caught in his throat like the claws of an animal, and he felt a chill that made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. He was being observed, he could feel the eyes fixed like stakes on his back.

With a slow movement he changed the knife into his left hand and with the other he clutched the butt of the gun—he had to be fast, very fast. He took a deep breath and tried to turn swiftly drawing his weapon at the same time, but he was hit in the hand and the gun fell to the ground a few feet from where he was. Daryl moved aside nimbly, grabbing his knife with his right hand again, but his attacker was quicker, and snatched it before he could do anything about it. Then he felt arms circling around his shoulders, forcing him to turn around. Daryl slammed his back against the body of his opponent, tried to hit him in the stomach to shake him off, but then he felt the knife blade on his neck.

"You're lucky I usually ask fist and act later."

Daryl didn't even have a second to feel relief as he recognized that voice—muffled by the cloth he was certain was covering his mouth—because he received a strong push. The archer lurched forward, almost falling to the ground, but he composed himself quickly and ducked taking the gun again. Then he turned to face his attacker with the gun pointed at him.

And there was Paul who had appeared out of nowhere, like a dark entity, despite not wearing either his coat or his hat. He had his hair pulled back and, as he had imagined, a black bandana was covering part of his face. He was holding his knife but kept his arms on either side of his body—his expression was even murkier than the shadows cast over his features.

"What are you doing here," he said, with such a serious tone that seemed to have born from his inner depths—as removed the black cloth from his face.

"The hell you think I'm doin' here," Daryl said lowering his weapon.

"That doesn't answer my question."

"And this ain't the place to argue 'bout crap—I've come to help you."

"I don't need your help, dammit! Daryl, you should be at Hilltop."

Paul approached him in a couple of strides, giving him back his knife with an angry gesture, and then he passed by.

"'Course you need help, you crazy and arrogant idiot, ya can't get in there alone."

The scout turned to say something, but just in that moment they heard a noise. Both drew their weapons, one beside the other, listening attentively. The sound was there, not far from where they were. Someone was coming, there was no doubt. Paul stepped forward, ready to pounce on the intruder, but then Owen appeared among the trees with his hands up.

"It's me, it's me," he said quickly.

Paul's eyes widened.

"The fuck are you doin' here? Told you to go away," Daryl blurted.

Paul turned to face the archer hardly believing his ears, "you brought him here?"

"Well, technically I've brought him here," Owen said, pursing his lips instantly, realizing that it was best to keep his mouth shut.

Paul rubbed his face in exasperation, "do you still wonder why I never ask for help?"

"You can't get in there by yourself, fuck sake!" Daryl repeated.

"Take Owen back home."

"Guys…"

"He can return alone, I'm stayin'."

"No, you going with him."

"Guys…"

"Daryl, don't—"

"Guys!"

"What!" both replied in unison.

Owen swallowed, "I saw a car on the road, not far away from where I was—I don't know if they saw something, but two guys got out and went into the woods. They did further north than where we are now, but I thought you should know."

Daryl was about to say something, when the walker he had left behind appeared just behind Owen, surprising the three of them in their stupid brawl. Paul moved quickly, pushing Owen away from the creature and thrusting his sharp knife against its temple. When the walker fell to the ground, the scout watched it for a few seconds and then turned to face them with a sigh.

"I had everything in control," he said tiredly, "why did you have to come?"

Daryl could feel Owen's eyes on him, but he didn't take his eyes off the scout, who looked like he was about to give up, leave everything, and return home.

"I won't leave you alone," the archer said then.

Even in the darkness he could see something in the expression of Paul's face that he had never seen before, though he didn't have time to think about it because Paul quickly turned to Owen.

"You have to leave now," he said approaching him, "if you think you can't get to the car, there is a cabin–"

"I've seen it."

"Great, I've blocked the access to the basement from the inside, but outside there's a small window at ground level. It's hidden behind the undergrowth around the house, use it to sneak in. But listen, your priority is to get to the car, okay?"

Owen nodded and immediately ran away.

"You," he said pointing at Daryl, "let's go."

They moved down the hill trying to hide from the saviors as best as they could, because, even from down there, they could see several guards posted at different points of the wall surrounding their settlement.

After a few feet they stopped under the black shade of a tree.

"It's impossible to get in there," the archer whispered.

"These factories used to have discharge pipes. I think there's a stream on the other side, there must be one nearby. You, in the meantime, check out the surroundings, there's probably more than one entry. Also count the number of guards and look for—" he paused to look at the archer, "well, you know, anything that can be useful for us. See you in two hours…"

"Two hours?"

"How long do you think I can be in there without being seen? I'll try to be as fast as I can… we'll see each other in two hours, at the same point where we left Owen… if I'm not back in that time… go. "

Daryl made a sound in his throat.

"Daryl…"

"If they catch you…"

"If they catch me, they either kill me or take me to Negan… and then he will probably kill me, so… forget it, okay? Just go back to Hilltop. I left the car a couple of miles away from the path you took… I'm sure you'll be able to find it."

The scout spoke more calmly from what might be expected given the situation, but the archer could hear concern in his words, and those pauses that indicated he was more nervous than he wanted to show. Perhaps, and finally, he was realizing that this was not a good idea, or maybe it was just that his presence had disrupted all his plans. Either way, Daryl felt a sharp pain in his chest, a pressure that made his stomach turn, because he realized that they were about to separate and neither of them ignored the huge possibility of this being the last time they would see each other.

The archer's heart thumped so hard that he was sure it was audible hundreds of miles away. He watched the scout, who in that moment was fitting the knives in his belts, even if it looked more like a distraction for him than a real need, and suddenly he felt the urge, as he had never felt before, to take him right there and kiss him.

"Fuck…" he said letting out an anxious breath.

"What's wrong?"

Daryl rubbed his face vehemently, he had never felt so many doubts and emotions in what he could remember of his miserable life. Not even the lashes that had marked his skin forever had managed to cause him such anxiety.

He wanted to turn around and try to convince that crazy chatterbox that the most sensible thing they could do was to go back—they should return to Hilltop, but he was aware that this was a coward and selfish move. They, after all, were only two men, but the lives of hundreds of people that lived unfairly under the yoke of this tyrant, depended on what they did that night. They had to defeat him, there was no other solution, and they both had part of that responsibility in their hands.

The archer jumped surprised at his own silence when he noticed Paul gloved hands over his face. He hadn't felt him move or get close, but he was there, just mere inches from him, staring into his eyes.

"Hey…" he said barely in a whisper, "everything will be okay. I trust you… so try to make the effort and trust in me a little. Maybe they beat us in number but we'll prove them that we're smarter, right?"

"Right…"

Daryl felt Paul caressing his cheeks with his thumbs and despite the relative obscurity, he could see a slight smile forming in the corner of his lips, though the scout said and did nothing, nor did he move, just stood there for a while looking into his eyes. And there was a strange new shine on them, but the archer could also sense the questions and doubts that ran like greyhounds through his head, like he was wondering what to do next.

Then Daryl felt a light breeze whipping his face when Paul walked away turning his back at him. He saw the scout put a hand to his face, and he thought he even heard him sigh with resignation. Then he turned to face him again.

"See you in two hours," Daryl said.

However, what the archer expected to be a hopeful farewell sounded more like a warning. And yet, that damned cat-charming hippie pothead smiled.

"Have some faith, man," he said, extending his arms, "in the end, I'm _Jesus,_ right?"

And those ridiculous words were the last he said before turning around and getting lost in the dark.


	20. Chapter 20

Daryl felt he was about to spit his heart out when he finally reached the place where they had agreed to meet again. The archer stopped, hands on his knees, as he tried to catch the air he had left behind on the way back.

He had inspected the whole area around the factory, getting as close as he could without being seen. Surrounding the settlement was a high barbed wire fence—impossible to climb, but easy to shoot down if weren't for the amount of walkers he had seen around—hundreds of them impaled just in front of the fence forming an almost impenetrable wall.

The main entrance was the same that was visible from the top of the hill, but he had seen a smaller one at the east end that looked like an emergency exit.

There were guards positioned in pairs on each of the exposed faces of the camp, but this was a really big place, and he was more than sure they were not enough to guard it.

The west side was steeper and difficult to access, and as Paul had said, there was not only a small stream, but he had also found the discharge pipe he had talked about. It was not a very large tube, but enough for the crazy little man to sneak in.

His heart sank as soon as Paul crossed his mind. He was sure it'd been more than two hours since they had separated, but there was no sign of the scout. Daryl looked around quickly—examining the fronds just in case, though he was fully convinced that the scout hadn't returned yet.

 _Two hours._

That was the maximum time they had agreed, just like those who plan to climb a twenty-six thousand feet mountain, and know they had to return before a stipulated hour because whatever comes after that interval, could mean the death.

 _Death_.

He tried to be rational for once, clear his mind and think carefully—if Paul was not there it could be because it took him more time that he had expected, or that he had found some problems. He could have found himself trapped somewhere, or he had discovered something that may be delaying him more than necessary.

But Daryl knew those were nothing more than excuses in his head to not think about the most feasible of all possibilities—that he had been caught. If they had caught him and he was recognized, he knew there was a remote possibility for him to be left alive, because he imagined that Negan wouldn't miss the opportunity to make Hilltop pay for the stark boldness of their most recognizable emissary. But Negan could also punish them without the need of leaving Paul alive, and that idea turned his stomach in such a way he felt the need to vomit.

Daryl grunted and returned to the edge of the hill to watch from the distance. Everything seemed calm and in order, nothing pointed to the inevitable uproar that would take place if someone discovered that an intruder was inside.

"Where are you…?" he muttered to himself.

 _Two hours._

He had promised that if Paul was not there in two hours he'd leave to Hilltop. _Bullshit_ , he hadn't promised anything, and anyway, it also took him more than two hours to get back there. Perhaps the scout had arrived before him and after seeing he was not there he decided to go, but Daryl had to laugh at the thought because he knew it was impossible for the damn chatterbox to have arrived before him, and he knew it was even more impossible for the scout to go back to Hilltop leaving him there. He knew Paul wouldn't do something like that and neither was he—no fucking way—he was not going to abandon him.

The archer sat next to a tree, with his eyes fixed on that concrete bulk, and waited. He waited until his mind couldn't guess anymore, he waited until there were no more possibilities to list, he waited until there was nothing else to think about.

He looked at the sky still dark and starry. He's been sat there for over an hour and there was still no sign of Paul. His throat closed with anxiety—he sighed and rubbed his face with such vigor he hurt himself. He didn't want to think about it, but perhaps it was time for him to start reconsidering the only sensible thing left, and that was getting up and return to Hilltop. But appearing there without that damned cat-charming hippie pothead, only seemed to confirm the possibility that they had lost him forever, and he was neither prepared nor willing to accept that, and yet he knew that he had no other options.

And then, just in that moment, when he was about to give everything up for lost—get up and take one last look at that settlement of the devil, he noticed the guards were moving. They were running, warning each other. Then some blinding spotlights went on lighting up part of the camp's closest surrounding, that until then had remained hidden in the shadows.

Daryl's heart pounded against his chest. They had found him, there was no doubt about it, and though those were bad news, the archer actually felt some relieve because that meant the crazy little man was still alive.

He closed his eyes.

 _Calm down, man, think…_

The stir could mean that they had discovered his presence and now were simply trying to find him, which meant that the scout still had options to escape. But there was also the possibility that he had been caught, and though he was sure that Paul would tell them he was there alone, it was more than likely the saviors wouldn't believe his words and wanted to inspect the area just in case.

Daryl stepped back just as the main door opened and a vehicle left the settlement in a hurry. He also saw some men on foot; they separated into two groups and went running into the woods armed to the teeth.

 _Shit._

He had to hide and he had to do it soon, but his body seemed to be unable to react, like he didn't want to abandon that spot, because as stupid as it sounded, Daryl still harbored hopes of seeing Paul appearing there out of nowhere, like in a magic trick, as he had done many times before.

Then he heard the sound of branches and leaves—an incessant crackle that became louder with the passing seconds. Daryl knew it couldn't be a walker, and he also doubted it was an animal—he was sure it had to be a person, someone running, and whoever it was, was doing it in that direction.

Daryl hid immediately unsheathing his knife, his chest moving quickly in anticipation, but he waited, ready to jump against the stranger—he was close, he could feel it. He grabbed the handle tightly and swallowed while awaiting the last seconds he knew it would take him before appearing right there. And he did—the man sped like a bullet but stopped short immediately. Daryl wanted to take this moment to attack him, but his body paralyzed completely as his eyes widened with recognition.

It was him. It was Paul.

The scout looked around him like he was trying to find evidence that someone else had been there, but stepped back surprised, and his face froze, just as Daryl stepped out of the shadows.

The two men stared at each other for a few seconds in a sort of stupefied surprise, like none of them could believe that the other was really there. Daryl was about to move at the same time he saw Paul opening his mouth to say something, but the sound of rushed footsteps forced them to turn around, alarmed.

"We have to go," the scout said quickly, "the cabin, come on!"

Paul was the first to get going and Daryl followed him closely—the two ran into the brush, skirting the trunks of trees that, in that moment the archer felt were almost labyrinthine. He was not even aware of where they were going. _The cabin_. Yes, but suddenly nothing around him looked familiar, until the thicket opened out in front of them into a clearing. Paul pointed a spot behind the cabin and he approached it running and pushing aside the thick foliage, revealing a small window at ground level. The scout opened it and stepped aside to let Daryl slip through it. The archer crouched and crawled across the floor, introducing his legs first before letting himself fall into the basement. Once inside, he didn't take his eyes off the window until he saw Paul do exactly the same. Then the scout closed it, leaving the window hidden again behind the brush.

Everything went dark and silent instantly, and Daryl jumped slightly when he felt a hand grabbing his arm. It was Paul, who seemed to be trying to make sure that the archer had got inside despite having seen it with his own eyes.

"I'm here…" Daryl said, barely a whisper.

Paul then dragged him to an even darker spot and the two sat on the floor.

"Ya know, this place will be the first they gonna check, right?" the archer pointed out.

Paul said nothing—Daryl wasn't able to see him, but he could imagine him scanning the darkness around them like an animal, trying to get ahead of the saviors' movements, if only mentally.

"How did'ja hide this?" Daryl asked softly.

"I've got a shelf in front of the door."

Daryl turned to face him—his eyes slowly adapting to the new environment. He could see the scout's silhouette sitting just a few inches from him.

"You kidding me?"

"The door's hidden, okay? Now let's pray they're dim-witted."

"What if they find the window?"

"We won't let them get in, Daryl."

His tone made it clear that it was better for them to stop talking, and soon after they went silent, they heard the footsteps of those chasing them.

Daryl moved from where they were siting, feeling Paul's hand behind him trying to stop him, but the archer crept to the window, opened it and very carefully pushed aside the vegetation. There, he saw clearly three men armed with assault rifles, approaching the cabin. They moved slowly like they were trying to avoid attracting the attention of those who might be hiding inside. _Fools_.

The archer went back to where Paul was sitting and let himself fall beside him, bumping lightly against his body, and again he felt relief knowing he was there, next to him, safe and sound. At least for now.

"They're jus' three men," he said in a barely audible whisper.

But before Paul could speak, they heard the wood creaking over their heads. Those fuckers were inside the cabin already, moving with slow steps, though that didn't stop the floor from cracking with each of their movements—casting a light rain of dust upon them, which moved as they scoured the old house.

Daryl suddenly noticed Paul's breath quicken, feeling the slight trembling of his body brushing against his.

"Fuck…"

"What's wrong?"

"There's something crawling up my pants…"

The archer frowned in the dark and then, without even thinking what he was doing, he leaned forward touching the scout's legs until he noticed a small hairball. He gave it a slight slap and shook it off him.

"Was jus' a damn mouse," he growled.

"Don't like mice."

Daryl was about to say something, but his words were drowned under the blows that one of the saviors was giving against the wall separating the main floor from where they were hiding. The archer guessed they were looking for an access to the basement—it was a logical thing to think that there must be one.

Paul then moved beside him and went to the stairs—at the top of them was the door he had hidden. The scout unsheathed one of his knives and then turned to look at the archer motioning him with his hand to move to the other side of the ladder. Daryl obeyed and the two nailed their eyes on the door, weapons ready in case those men were not as stupid as they expected, and realized a simple shelf was blocking the access.

And they waited—they waited for a few minutes in complete silence as they followed each of those ignorant men's steps above their heads, until the wood's creaking sound stopped.

Daryl moved back to the window and watched the men leave and move away from the cabin. He didn't take his eyes off them until they disappeared in the forest.

"They left."

"It could be a trap."

"Yeah… we should wait."

The archer turned away from the window but stopped when he realized that Paul was standing next to the stairs, and though he couldn't see him clearly, Daryl knew he was staring at him. It was like he was about to say something, but instead, the scout moved approaching the window.

"You don't trust me or what?"

Paul glanced outside wordlessly, and Daryl went to the stairs to sit there.

"It may be two hours to dawn," the scout said softly.

"What took ya so long?" Daryl asked.

But still Paul didn't utter a word—he turned to look at him, but said nothing.

"What did'ja see?"

"What I imagined, there's also families living in there, in fact I would estimate that a high percentage of its inhabitants are ordinary people. There's also armed men—a lot—but not as many as I expected, we could face them in a confrontation. Under the factory they have a warehouse where they keep almost everything they take away from Hilltop and other communities, I guess. There was also a door that I'm sure led to their arsenal but, of course, it was closed."

"Did'ja see Negan?"

"No, the building has five floors, but I saw cells, they have imprisoned people—I wanted to help them, but… it was impossible to get out of there with all of them. That's the reason I held up, and that's why they almost caught me."

"You're fuckin' crazy."

"I told you to have some faith, archer."

"'S the second time you call me that, but you've never seen me with the crossbow."

"Maggie told me, and she also told me they took it from you."

"Yeah—seems they're used to taking what's not theirs."

Paul stared at him for a few seconds, then approached him, "I didn't find your crossbow but…" he said, pulling out something he was keeping in his back.

Daryl looked at the object, frowning—it was his knife, the one that Vulture fucker had taken from him. The knife Earl Sutton had made, the one that Paul had asked to be made for him. The archer blinked, and after staring at the knife for a while, he finally took it in his hands. Daryl remembered how impressed he'd been when he first saw it, but now it looked even more beautiful than before.

"Where did'ja get it?"

Paul shrugged.

"Where did'ja get it?" he asked again, hardening his tone.

The scout frowned then, "does it matter? You wanted your knife back, you have it."

"'Course it matters, is this why it took you so long, because ya went lookin' for the fuckin' knife?"

"I found it by chance."

"Liar…"

Paul sighed, tired, "Daryl, already told you—I wanted to help those people. Do you really think—" Paul stopped suddenly, raising his head and staring at the floor above them, "do you hear that?"

Daryl rose quickly, "yeah…"

The two men went silent and listened that strange crackle that was starting to be more and more audible. Then Daryl went up the stairs, huddling against the door, and after a few seconds he wrinkled his nose.

"Smoke…"

"What?"

"Those bastards have set the cabin on fire!"

"Oh fuck…"

Daryl ran downstairs and joined the scout who was already looking in all directions searching for a way out, but the only way to get out of there was the window they had used to get inside.

"We're in a fuckin' death trap!" the archer cried out.

He heard the scout mumble something and then saw him run to the window, taking another look.

"It's still dark enough, come on!"

"They might be waitin' out there!"

"I know, I'll go first, if they're there, I'll distract them, you run into the woods, okay?" Daryl opened his mouth to protest but Paul held up a hand to stop him, "not gonna argue with you, Daryl, not here—you ready?"

The archer had no other choice but to nod, then that damn crazy little man turned away and with a little jump he perched on the window and went out. Daryl followed him just seconds later and he already had half of his body outside the cabin when he heard the shouts and bullets.

"There! Run!"

Daryl turned away. Behind him he could feel the searing heat of the cabin being burnt down. Across it, he saw the three saviors running into the woods—the archer got up quickly, and walked through the thick grove in the opposite direction, then he changed course to try to follow them and attack from behind.

The archer moved quickly through the trees until he saw the three saviors a few feet ahead of him. They had stopped and were walking slowly, keeping a distance from each other—rifles ready, as they checked their surroundings looking for Paul.

Then Daryl fixed his eyes on one of the men—the one who was closer to him. He was not very tall, but was big enough, though by the way he was moving and looking around him, it was obvious he had no fucking idea what he was looking for.

The archer approached him slowly, with the movements of a predator that was about to lunge at its prey. Then, he saw near him, a set of trees that were so close together that seemed to form a high wooden wall. He hid there and scratched the branches beneath him to draw the savior's attention. The man quickly turned toward the sound, and Daryl could hear his footsteps approaching. The archer drew his knife—the knife that Paul had given him—and waited until the man was close enough. When he saw the tip of the barrel of his rifle poke out, Daryl grabbed it, pulling it with a quick movement. The savior barely had time to react, and when he tried to do so, the arched had already dragged the man toward him, covering his mouth and stabbing the knife directly on his temple.

"What was that?"

Daryl took the rifle from the man now lying before him, and immediately looked out—just enough to check where the other two saviors were. When he saw them, he aimed his gun and fired. However, the bullets crashed against the tree trunks, and the two men hid quickly. Daryl tried to shoot again, but just a few seconds later he heard the sound of the ammunition fired against his makeshift hideout.

The arched ducked swiftly, covering his head as he felt the trunks' splinters flying around him. The noise lasted for what seemed a lifetime, but the moment everything stopped, he ran out of there looking for another place to hide and strike again.

"Come on!"

The two saviors came after him as Daryl moved among the trees without even being aware of where he was putting his feet. Then he found a tree with a trunk wide enough to hide—he stood behind it, reloaded his gun, leaned out and fired again. He managed to hit the shoulder of one of the saviors, who fell to the ground with a loud cry of pain. But Daryl had lost sight of the other one.

The archer looked around but he couldn't see him. Daryl then turned his attention to the man on the ground; he was trying to get up as he unsheathed a gun. The archer aimed his rifle at him and just before the man could shoot, Daryl pulled the trigger—the bullet went straight into the savior's skull who fell back with thud.

There was only one left now but Daryl had no time to think, he was not even able to hear the whistle of the bullet darting in his direction—he just felt a sharp sudden pain in his right arm. Then he received a blow that made him fall to the ground, and he looked up just in time to see the savior jump on him.

Daryl tried to hit him, but the man was faster and punched him hard leaving him dizzy for a few seconds. Then he felt another blow, and another. The archer tried to kick him off, but the man gave him another punch. Then Daryl tried to draw his knife but, as if his mind had been read, the guy snatched it from him and pressed it against his neck.

The archer writhed beneath him, struggling to break free—he looked at his eyes for a moment, seeing in them the fucking bastard's intentions. Then Daryl felt him move his hand but just before he could rip into his skin with the blade, Paul appeared behind him—grabbed the man, pulling his head back, and with a movement so fast that Daryl couldn't even register, the scout slashed his throat from ear to ear.

For a moment Daryl lost track of time completely. He didn't know how much time he had spent there, lying on the ground with his eyes fixed on the tops of the trees that were starting to light up with the early dawn. He was too stunned to think clearly.

"Daryl…" he heard that soft voice, and though he knew Paul was there; he sounded distant—until the scout appeared before him. He bent down and quickly examined his arm and face, then he stared upon him with his crystalline eyes full of concern.

"We have to go, come on," Paul held out a hand and helped him up, "you can walk?"

The archer could only grunt an affirmative answer, and the two started to move. They walked for a while, Paul before him, walking with firm steps, though by the set of his shoulders, the archer could tell how tired he was. Still, Daryl saw him take quick glances behind him every now and then to make sure he was still there, until he came over and put an arm around his waist to give him support.

"Come on…"

"I'm fine…" the archer growled.

"Shut up. That way—there's a stream in that direction," he said, pointing with his free hand.

"We should get rid of the bodies."

"We can't go back."

It took them some time to reach the stream, and when they arrived, Daryl let himself drop to the forest floor, leaning back against the trunk of a tree. _Fuck_. He was completely exhausted.

"The heck were you?" the archer blurted suddenly.

Paul however said nothing, he crouched in front of him, checking again his injured arm, "you're lucky, the bullet only grazed you. It's still an ugly cut, though."

Then, from one of his cargo pants pockets, he pulled a flask.

"The hell did'ja get that?"

"Took it off one of them."

"Who takes a fuckin' flask when they're huntin' people?"

"I guess the same kind of person who goes after a man who kills people with a baseball bat that he's named."

Daryl couldn't answer that—he took a fist to his mouth, trying to stifle the groan of pain he felt when Paul poured some of the flask's content over the wound.

"Here," the scout said, handing him the bottle, "drink the rest."

The archer didn't think twice and emptied it in one gulp. Then he examined his wound, which stung like the lash of a whip. The breeze of dawn also made his face burn.

Paul took the flask off him and approached the stream, rinsed it and filled it with fresh water, then he drank some. Daryl watched him carefully, while he stood there for a moment, like he was thinking about something as he vigorously rubbed his face. Then the scout filled the flask again and rose, returning to where the archer was still seated.

Paul knelt before him, checking once again the wound on his arm and then examined his face, "I told you to go," he said after a while, with a weary voice.

"Now it's my fault you got us into that trap."

"I'd have avoided the cabin if I'd been alone. I warned you—two people are twice the problems."

Paul sighed loudly shaking his head. He didn't want to argue, it was obvious—it was a waste of time, more after what had happened. They could be dead right now, the two of them, but they were not, and Daryl was grateful for that.

"You really expected me to go?" the archer asked softly.

"I hoped that you did the right thing for once in your life, yes," despite his words, his tone was not accusatory, in fact, as soon as he uttered them, he dropped his shoulders and bowed his head, "though, I didn't want you to."

His voice filled the air with such a soft echo that for a moment the archer thought the words were just part of his imagination.

"Told you I wouldn't leave you alone."

There was something in Paul's eyes that unnerved Daryl as never before. On the one hand, there was this concern that he kept seeing reflected in his eyes, but there was something else—there was a new twinkle in them, and the archer cursed himself for not being able to read what was going through his head.

Paul moved just a little but enough to distract him from those thoughts. The scout started to untie the bandana around his neck—he unfolded and folded it again to the side that hadn't been exposed, and then he leaned slightly, placing it over the wound in his arm.

"You need to see Harlan," he said.

The scout finished applying the makeshift bandage, ensuring that it wouldn't slip. His gloved hands moved gently over his skin, sending tingles down Daryl's body and making his hair stand on end. The archer's heart accelerated, as he had never experienced, he could even feel it pumping against his eardrums.

Daryl examined Paul's face, he still had his eyes fixed on his bandaged arm, but the dawn's light revealed a small bruise on his right cheek, where he imagined that Vulture bastard had hit him. The archer raised a hand unconsciously to touch his face, gently stroking the skin that had turned a dark-blue color.

The scout glanced at him, surprised by this unexpected gesture, and their eyes met for the few seconds that the archer was able to keep his judgment intact before he pressed his lips against Paul's.

It was an awkward kiss, led mostly by the spontaneity of the gesture and the scout's evident surprise, who seemed unable to react.

Given the lack of response from Paul, Daryl quickly broke the contact—his hands were shaking from nerves and the immediate understanding of what he had done, and his initial desire was replaced then with embarrassment.

The archer ducked his head, trying to evade the scout's gaze, despite knowing his eyes were fixed on him, but he couldn't help it, he feared what he might find in them, and with an exacerbated sigh he stood up and approached the stream. He knelt on the bank and splashed his face with the cold water. He was feeling like a complete idiot, and he couldn't stop wondering what could have led him to do such a stupid thing.

 _Nothing_.

Because he wasn't thinking, he just acted, guided by what his body was loudly begging of him, and because he thought he had seen something in Paul's eyes, something that he was not even sure he was looking for, but he realized that he craved—something he couldn't have imagined.

He laughed to himself—what could he know of such things? An inexperienced redneck, who had just fucked with women to free himself physically, and mentally, from all those accusing eyes around him.

With a grunt he rose again and noticed that Paul was doing the same to his back—he knew he was there, behind him, watching him and probably judging him. And then he felt him move, walk, approaching him. The archer's heart grabbed in his chest—he was not ready to face him, to explain himself, but still his body turned and before he could say or do anything, Paul put his gloved hands on both sides of his face and their lips met again.

This was not a subtle or delicate kiss, it was a hungry and ravenous kiss, guided and dragged through all those emotions that both had felt growing inside of them, but that they had retained vehemently, even denying them—but that now were beyond their own control.

Daryl couldn't help thinking about everything that had happened during those last few intense weeks. An unstoppable whirlwind of emotions that crossed his mind as intermittent lightning bolts—their encounter with Negan, Glenn's death, the shot in his shoulder, his vulnerability and the anger he had vented against Paul. Their nights together, their conversations, their confessions. The saviors, Alexandria, the Kingdom. And suddenly he remembered Sofia, Merle, Beth, Denise and Eric, and all those people who had been taken away from them mercilessly. And he thought about the war, that bloody and inevitable war, that he knew was going to tear apart his heart again. And he felt fear, a fear as deep as the kiss they were sharing, and the mere thought of losing Paul—as he had lost the rest—caused him so much pain that he couldn't do anything else but push the scout away from him.

The two men stared at each other for a moment as they tried to recover the lost air. Daryl could see perfectly the confusion and frustration in Paul's eyes. He also saw he was about to move, but stopped before he even took the first step. Then he opened his mouth, but Daryl went on before.

"We should go."

Paul frowned, like he hadn't understood what he had said, but then Daryl started to walk, passing by his side and going back into the woods. Almost instantly the archer felt the scout's presence behind him.

"It's not that way," he said hoarsely.

Daryl turned to face him and saw him take a different path. He followed him and they walked, one behind the other, for nearly half an hour, until they finally reached the place where Paul had hidden the 4x4. The archer didn't think twice and opened the trunk's door getting inside.

"What are you doing?" Paul asked.

"Making sure no one follows us."

Paul moved his lips but closed them again, sighing exhausted. Then he walked to the front of the car, got into the driver's seat and started it up. A few minutes later they left the forest and took the road that would lead them back to Hilltop. Daryl was not sure whether to feel relief or not, all that he wanted was to get there as soon as possible.


	21. Chapter 21

His mind seethed with an overwhelming torrent of emotions. He was unable to take his mind off the man driving the car and his soft but fierce lips. He could still feel them, just as he could feel the pressure of his body against his. No one had ever awakened in him a need like that—an almost primal hunger. Perhaps it was due to this sudden reawakening of his body, perhaps he was just acting out of pure instinct, or maybe it was that he simply needed to free himself after so long. But no, he knew what he was feeling was not just something physical.

Daryl rubbed his face and eyes, like that was enough to brush those thoughts away, but it was not, and he was so absorbed that he didn't realize that they had arrived to Hilltop, until he stopped feeling the shaking of the car engine.

When he looked out the window, Paul was already out of the 4x4 heading toward the trailer's area, and saw him knock the door of the one owned by Owen and his mother. He figured that he wanted to make sure that the boy had returned safely, and the archer growled because of his particular stubbornness. He was so obsessed with his own concerns that he had completely forgotten that he had put Owen into all this mess, though he felt a sharp relief when he saw him come out the door.

In the distance he saw Rosita coming down from the watch point, approaching Paul—Daryl jumped slightly when someone knocked on the back window of the trunk, he turned to find Tara there. Behind her, Maggie was leaving the house.

"What are you doing in there?"

Daryl opened the door and got out the vehicle.

"Damn, what happened?" she asked, looking at his face and then his arm, "shit, you're hurt."

"'S nothin'."

"You're bleeding, Daryl."

The archer glanced at his arm and saw two small trickles of blood sliding down beneath Paul's bandana, and instinctively he sought the scout again, who was talking to Maggie and Rosita. The conversation didn't last long and the three of them walked to where he and Tara were standing. He imagined that Paul must have mentioned something about what happened because Maggie walked ahead of them with light steps.

"You're okay?" she asked as soon as she got close to them.

Maggie took Daryl's face in her hands and checked the bruises, and then she took a look at his arm.

"You have to go and let Harlan take a look at you."

"I'm fine."

"Daryl you're bleeding, you could—"

"I know, gonna see the doc later, okay? let's talk first."

The five got into the trailer now owned by _The Exiles of Barrington House_ as Tara and Rosita have named themselves, and there, both Paul and Daryl explained and told them everything they were able to remember about what they had seen inside and outside the settlement. Paul spoke about the cells and the families living in there, while Daryl mentioned the impaled wall of walkers in front of the fence that surrounded the whole factory.

"I'll go take this news to Rick tomorrow," Rosita said offering herself again.

"No," Paul said, "we should wait for a couple of days. We're tired and I'm sure that tomorrow, and after having some sleep, we'll be able to organize our thoughts and remember more details."

Paul fixed his eyes on Daryl when he said those last words, but the archer barely had time to react, because just afterwards the scout said goodbye and left the trailer.

* * *

Just a couple of hours later, and without having slept more than a wink, the archer was sitting in the doctor's trailer, waiting for Harlan to finish suturing the wound on his arm.

"Do you feel any pain in your face?" Harlan asked.

"Nah… I'm fine."

"If you feel any discomfort, come here and I'll give you something, but only if it's truly unbearable pain, you know we're trying as best as we can to waste no meds."

Daryl nodded.

"Okay, we're done here. It's not a deep cut, won't take long to heal."

Daryl got off the stretcher, ready to go, but then he saw that Harlan was about to throw Paul's bandana into a bin.

"No!" he exclaimed in a higher tone than he had intended. Harlan jumped, surprised, looking at him. "I'll take care of that."

The archer took the black kerchief and left the trailer. Once outside he looked at the piece of cloth in his hands, it was crumpled and bloodstained. Daryl sighed, perhaps it was best to throw it away as Harlan was about to do, but he didn't want to.

Daryl looked around; the community had already been focused on their tasks for several hours now. Among the neighbors working, he saw some men and women sitting quietly, taking advantage of the sunny day to do their laundry. Though of all of them, it was that woman with the fiery red hair who really caught his attention. She was sitting in a chair next to her trailer, submerging the clothes in a large metal pot, rubbing them vigorously against a washboard.

The woman looked up fixing her ice-blue eyes on Daryl as soon as she felt his presence.

"You want something?" she asked huskily, after a moment of silent.

Daryl cleared his throat, "D'ya accept orders?"

The woman looked at him with a firm expression, as she kept washing her clothes, "orders?"

"To wash clothes."

The flame-haired woman laughed, "do you think I'm a fucking maid?"

"I'd pay you."

"With what?"

"Whatever you ask."

The woman looked at him askance, "what do you want to wash?"

The archer showed her the black bandana and she raised her eyebrows, "a simple kerchief?"

"It's full of blood."

The woman made a low sound in her throat, "blood is very difficult to remove, boy."

"I'll pay you," the archer repeated, "sure there's somethin' ya may need help with."

She didn't answer for a moment.

"Is it Jesus'?"

Daryl frowned, certainly surprised by the question.

"Over here I've only seen him wear kerchiefs like that," she added.

Daryl shifted, thought he was not surprised that those spy-eyes would have noticed such an insignificant detail like that.

"Does it matter?" the archer asked then.

"It does. It's not the same wash for a stranger who I don't even like, to wash for someone I know and think highly of."

"Yeah… it's his."

"Why hasn't he come himself?"

Daryl shifted again, tired of that absurd conversation.

"You're gonna wash it or not?"

The flame-haired woman let the clothes fall into water, splashing everything. Then she straightened her back and fixed her keen eyes on the archer.

"That window back there," she said pointing to one side of the trailer, "doesn't close—had no time to worry about it because it broke before summer, but winter is coming and I need to keep the house warm."

"I'll fix it," Daryl replied gravely.

"Leave the kerchief there," the woman said, pointing to a pile of clothes.

Daryl spent much of the afternoon trying to fix the damn window, and he finally got it to close smoothly, well into the evening. The woman told him he could come to pick up the kerchief the next day, and that if he solved the problem she had with the bathroom's faucet, maybe she could think about washing his clothes.

While he was going back to his trailer, the archer was thankful for the distraction because, despite the sourness of flame-haired woman—whose name was Tammy—he hadn't had a second to think about Paul for the entire afternoon.

Until that very moment.

His heart raced when he remembered what had happened between the two just a few hours ago. He hadn't seen the scout since he had left the trailer that morning, and while Daryl felt some relief, he also noticed a knot in his stomach—suddenly, he couldn't help but wonder what could be going through that damned chatterbox's mind. Though the questions faded from his mind as soon as he reached his trailer and saw Paul standing by the door, hand raised like he was about to knock.

The scout felt his presence immediately and turned to face him. Daryl noticed that he had showered and was wearing clean clothes, not like him, who despite having washed his wound and face, was still wearing the same dirty and smelly clothes from the day before.

Neither of them said anything for a moment and Daryl thought his heart would burst against his chest with uncertainty, if they kept that silence any longer.

"We need to talk," Paul finally said softly.

"No," the archer quickly replied.

The words slipped out of his mouth before he even realized it—Paul closed his eyes and sighed slightly.

"Look," he said, "I know that you may be feeling terribly confused right now, I understand it, I—"

"You're wrong," the archer interrupted with a more hurtful tone than he would've wanted.

The archer was not confused, he was angry, but he was not angry with Paul, he was angry with himself. He was pissed off with this situation he was unable to dominate and control, and was pissed off because of the fear he felt of being rejected. He had spent much of his life isolated from society, and he had grown convinced that he didn't care about it at all, but he knew he wouldn't be able to endure it if Paul pushed him away, and his own instinct was screaming at him to stop that situation before things became more complicated.

"Daryl—"

"There's nothin' to talk 'bout. It was stupid. It shouldna happened. Forget it."

"Forget it?"

"Yeah, forget it."

"Daryl you can't go around kissing people and then acting as if nothing had happened," the scout said no longer hiding his frustration.

"Was jus' a fuckin' kiss, okay? Nothin' important, I—jus'—I wasn't thinking."

"You wasn't thinking… is that your damn answer for everything?"

"Maybe, yeah!" he said raising his tone, "and maybe, jus' like the punch, it meant nothing!"

Paul threw his head back slightly but his eyes never left Daryl's.

"That's all?"

"What did'ja expect? Me comin' here with flowers or some shit?"

The scout's lips pressed together in a thin line and his glance darkened so much that for a moment his crystal eyes turned black. Paul stared at him for long seconds and though he said nothing, Daryl could feel all those things that were going through his head and that he probably wanted to spit out right there, but nevertheless kept to himself.

Then he started to walk—passing by his side, and heading back to Barrington House without looking back once.

Daryl got into the trailer slamming the door so hard that the flimsy walls of his new home shook. He felt dizzy by the uncontrolled torrent of emotions running throughout his body and mind. He took his trembling hands to his face and breathed heavily trying to catch the air that was not able to fill his lungs.

"You okay?"

The archer turned, startled by the sudden noise of that voice and saw Tara sitting at the kitchen table. The woman had a hand in the air, like she about to take the fork to her mouth, but she was staring at him, still as a mannequin.

"What are you doing here?" Daryl asked.

"Dinning…"

Daryl sighed, puffing out his chest, still feeling unable to breathe normally, then he glanced at both sides of the trailer.

"Where's Rosita?"

"On watch."

The archer was silent for a moment, then lowered his head in shame.

"You heard it?"

"I could say no… but we're not exactly living in a palace with concrete walls" she answered honestly.

Daryl looked up, distracted, then he laid his eyes on the woman again—it was obvious that her friend was trying to act normal, but after a short moment of silence, she couldn't contain herself anymore.

"You kissed? For real?"

Daryl grunted like an enraged dog and ran the short hallway leading to the rooms, in a couple of strides.

"Hey, Daryl…wait!"

The archer went first into one of the rooms, then the other, then came out to meet with Tara again.

"Where the hell am I supposed to sleep? There's only two rooms."

Tara opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again, scowling. Daryl didn't have any kind of doubt that this was not exactly the topic she wanted to talk about, but Tara yielded to his demands for a moment.

"We think that both Rosita and I could use the bigger room—sleep together. You can take the other one."

Daryl thought for a second, "nah… I'll take the couch," he said, going back to the kitchen.

Tara sighed walking behind him, " _that_ thing?" she asked, pointing to the small and old green couch where barely fit two people, "Daryl…"

But the archer was not listening. He moved from side to side of the kitchen, rubbing his eyes so hard that for a moment everything went black. He swore to himself—that damned cat-charming hippie pothead had managed to finally drive him crazy.

"Daryl…"

His mind kept turning, in fact everything was spinning. He was so dizzy that the acid in his throat was turning to bile, and he almost considered throwing up right there.

"Daryl!"

The archer looked back at Tara, surprised by the high pitch of her voice.

"Stop pacing around like a maniac and sit the fuck down, shit!" She snapped, then she took a deep breath to compose herself again, "please… "

Daryl dropped himself on the green couch covering his face with his hands.

"What happened?"

"You heard it."

"Okay…" Tara took a chair and sat opposite him, "you two kissed, that's what I heard. When did it happen?"

"Does it matter?"

"It's a start."

Daryl scratched his neck, "after gettin' rid of the saviors… before comin' back here."

Tara raised an eyebrow, "uhm… okay… let me get this right… so, Jesus kissed you, right?"

Daryl let out an exasperated sigh, "I kissed him."

"Okay you—what?" Tara leaned back opening her eyes in surprise, " _you_?… really? Wow… this… I—I really didn't expect this…"

"What, me bein' interested in a guy?" Daryl spat, raising his voice clearly irritated.

Tara blinked a few times staring at him, but her face instantly turned serious, even grim, "I don't give a shit if you like a guy or a monkey, asshole," she blurted out, "have you forgotten who you're talking to? A lesbian who, until a few weeks ago, lived happily with her girlfriend—I should be with her right now, but you know what? I can't because she happens to be dead—now I'm here, locked up in this damn box I can't even call home, arguing with the stubbornest bastard I know."

Tara's voice trembled but she tried to hold the tears that had formed in her throat. Daryl lowered his head at the memory of Denise.

The woman sighed and looked away, "I'm sorry…" she said in a small voice.

"No, 's me who's sorry…" the archer replied, "you're right…"

"Hey… let's not go there, okay? I… when I say that it surprises me it's because in all the time I've known you, I've never seen you shown any interest in anyone. You've always lived in your own bubble—and frankly I never imagined you taking a step like this, much less with someone like Jesus, who seems to always be ahead of everyone. But I'm not here to judge you; I just want to help you. Man it's obvious you need to talk to someone and, if you want, you know you can talk to me."

Daryl simply nodded and Tara inhaled audibly, "let's start at the beginning, okay?… Let's see, you kissed him, right? So I'm assuming he rejected you."

"He kissed me back."

Tara frowned, "he kissed you back…" she repeated his words with parsimony.

"Yeah…"

"Okay… what's the fucking problem then?"

"The problem's that I freaked out and pushed him away—fuckin' hell, we're heading straight into a war and—just think that something might happen—"

"Wait, wait, wait…" Tara interrupted, "you're saying that all this is because you're afraid to open up to him and then lose him?"

"Yeah…"

Tara was silent for a moment, like she was meditating some kind of response, "are you fucking stupid or what?" she spat suddenly.

Daryl looked up surprised by the woman's words.

"Damn, Daryl… just a few weeks ago, you witnessed how Glenn was killed just in front of Maggie. Rick lost his wife, Sasha lost Bob… fuck, I lost Alisha and Denise and, you know what? I don't go around tormenting myself for having been with them, for having suffered the pain of their loss. When I look back I don't see their deaths, I see all those little moments that we at least spent together, and where we even were happy."

Tara closed her eyes and sighed deeply, "yes, Daryl, of course it hurts—it hurts so fucking much to remember they're no longer here. It hurts like someone is stabbing a bloody stake through your heart, but I'd rather feel that way than having to regret, for the rest of my life, missing the opportunity to be with them just because I suddenly saw the reality and pissed myself."

Tara took a deep breath, exhausted, and for a moment neither of them said anything, but Daryl couldn't use that moment of silence to think about what she just said; suddenly, his mind was completely blank.

"What if he doesn't feel the same?" he asked almost in a whisper.

"So what? you gonna stay here wondering for the rest of your life? You need to know it, Daryl, and if he doesn't feel the same, you will have no choice but to accept it and move on. But damn! You'd have to be completely blind not to see that Jesus cares a lot about you. So wake the fuck up, you idiot."

"Stop insulting me, dammit! Yer bein' a bitch."

"And you're a crying pussy."

They both laughed but the grin faded from Daryl's lips quickly.

"What can I do now?"

"If I were him, and you showed up in front of me right now, I'd kick your ass till my legs ache. Dude, you know I love you, but you acted like a real jerk out there. Luckily for you, Jesus is a reasonable man, and maybe in a day or two you both can sit down and talk—you really need to."

Daryl laid his eyes on his hands, his fingers tangled nervously around his red scarf. He felt better, that was true, though the anxiety didn't leave him completely—imagining having to look at Paul's face again caused him a restlessness that was difficult to appease, because he knew that meant having to apologize and, above all, finally accept who he was and what he felt.

Tara laid a hand on his arm, "hey…" she said softly, "I know from experience that leaving that bubble is not easy, and it's okay to be afraid, but hope you know we're here with you. And believe me when I say that it's worth looking at the world without your own prejudices, even with the world like this," the woman tapped him on the shoulder. "welcome to reality, archer."

Tara gave him a huge smile and Daryl couldn't help but return the gesture.

"Shit…" Tara said after a moment, "I can't wait to tell Rosita."

"You better keep that big mouth shut," Daryl snapped quickly.

The woman laughed loudly, "calm down, man, it was a joke—but seriously, you two make such an adorable couple…"

Daryl got off the couch with a grunt, hearing Tara's laughter behind him. Then he took the plate of food that was still over the kitchen table.

"Hey! That's my dinner!"

"Not anymore."

* * *

"Come in…"

Paul didn't even bother to look up from his desk when he answered the call on the door. He had woken up early—mainly because of his inability to sleep—and he had spent part of the morning helping Crystal to make an inventory of everything they had stored. The scout had realized that, despite having a lot of rice, they were starting to run out of other necessary supplies.

That task had managed to occupy his mind for several hours, and the scout was grateful for that. But his thoughts went back to Daryl the moment he got back into his room.

Paul was trying not to think too much about it—he understood perfectly how the archer must be feeling in that moment, but he couldn't deny that his words had hurt and disappointed him.

His mind went back again to that moment of the two of them sitting by the stream—that moment when Daryl had taken a step that even he hadn't been able to foresee. The scout had thought about it many times. Yes, he had thought about it _too_ many times, though he had forced himself to brush the idea off. He didn't want to scare Daryl, and still, he ended up doing it.

"What are you doing?"

Paul looked up from the paper on which he wrote and turned to see Maggie standing in the middle of the room. The scout gave her a smile.

"I try to write down all the things I can remember, but my brain seems to be on vacation."

Maggie reached the desk and sat on one of the corners, in front of him, "are you okay?"

Paul shifted and glanced to the window. He could lie, say yes, that he was okay, but he knew Maggie, and knew the question was not simple courtesy.

"Why are you asking?"

"This morning I noticed that you've been distracted, and this afternoon I missed you around. It's kind of rare to see Paul Monroe hidden in his room, even for me, that I've been here for a short time."

"I'm not hiding, and I was—"

"Paul…"

The scout sighed.

"I've seen it… you two have been avoiding each other all day."

The scout fixed his eyes on Maggie, though for a moment he said nothing.

"For things like this I think you'd make a good leader, you're very observant—I assure you that Gregory couldn't even tell how many people are living here. I was surprised that he remembered who Henry was." Paul returned his gaze back to the window to his left, "but I guess your concern could also mean that someone has told you something… have you talked with Daryl?"

"No… but Tara has insisted all morning that I should come and talk to you. She didn't say why, but I figured the rest out on my own—What happened? Did you two fight or something?"

Paul said nothing, but noticed that his hands had started to play with the pen between his fingers, nervously.

"What if I say that nothing's happened…"

"I won't believe you, and will torture you until you tell me, and I assure you that I can be a heartless shrew."

Paul laughed.

"But seriously, Paul, I don't want to pressure you, but I care about you both and I hate to see that things aren't well between you, especially now when we are about to meet with everyone else again—the confrontation is close, _too close_ , and you are two of the best men we have. If you want to talk, you know…"

"We kissed."

Maggie froze the moment the words left his mouth, and Paul would have imagined her blinking in bewilderment if she hadn't opened her eyes like they were about to pop out of here head.

"When?"

"Yesterday… I was trying to take care of the wound on his arm and he suddenly kissed me."

"Wait, wait, wait… _he_ kissed you?"

"Yeah, and then I kissed him and, suddenly something possessed him, and he pulled me away and hasn't let me get close to him since. Well, the truth is, I've only tried once, but what can I do, this _fake Saint_ also has its pride."

Maggie was silent for a moment, like she was not able to digest that information, "you both are two of the stubbornest people I know," she said.

Then Maggie stood, held out her hand to Paul, and the two walked to the bed where they sat next to each other.

Maggie sighed somewhat incredulously before speaking again, "wow… I really—I don't… I don't know what to say… I think we've all seen that there was a special connection between you two, but I'm still surprised. I've known Daryl for two years and he's always been a very private person—he's spent most of his time worrying about others, but never about himself. It was like what he felt or what he wanted wasn't important—the only important thing was the group's welfare."

Maggie reached out hand and put it on Paul's shoulder, "you have no idea how happy I am to know that he finally pulled the blindfold off, and even more knowing it's because of you—but I guess it can't be easy to deal with all those feelings suddenly. It's already difficult for any other person, I can't even imagine what it must be for someone who has been repressed as long as he has."

Paul lowered his head, "I know Maggie, and I don't blame him for being afraid or having doubts, I have them too. I never thought I'd feel this way ever again, especially when we're surrounded by such a volatile world," the scout sighed, "I don't know, I guess we both need some time to think."

"Maybe…"

"I've thought about going out for a few days. After making the inventory we've seen that we need some things urgently. I can take some guys and try to bring what we need. If war breaks out we have to be prepared and… well, maybe when we return, he'll have had enough time to clear his head and we can sit down and have a conversation like two grown men."

Maggie smiled, "I can try to talk to him…"

"No, there's no need, he is stubborn but eventually he's able to figure things out."

They both laughed quietly.

"When do you plan to go?"

"Tomorrow. I'll talk to the guys this afternoon, see if there's volunteers, and I'll prepare everything to leave early in the morning."

Maggie sighed slightly, "If you think that's the best…"

"It's the best for everyone."

* * *

Three days had passed since they had left Hilltop, three days they had dedicated to fully exploring the town located twenty minutes away from the rice factory, and that had become their second home during those seventy-two hours.

Shops, houses, offices, apartments… everything was valid, everything was useful, from all the material they had left for safekeeping in both the gynecological clinic and the pharmacies, to all that they had found in the pantries and storehouses of those now ownerless homes and establishments.

Paul asked the boys shortly after talking to Maggie, and there were a few who volunteered to go with him, though the scout finally just chose six of them—Mandy, Marcus, Dante, Eduardo, Andy and Owen, along with Tara, who showed a lot of interest in joining them.

The scout prepared everything to leave the next morning, when it would be the sixteenth day since they had started with the training—and they were about to leave when in the distance Paul saw Daryl approaching them, his jaws so contracted that he looked like a bull ready to attack.

"The hell you think you're doin'?" the archer snapped.

"Excuse me?"

"Where are you takin' my boys?"

Paul raised his eyebrows in surprise and let out a slight laugh, " _your_ boys?" He looked around, "I only see volunteers here. We're going out, we need provisions… so if you do not mind," he said pulling him aside, "we have to go."

"What 'bout the training? When were you gonna tell me?"

"I'm telling you now."

In that moment Tara joined them, opening the Honda Civic's driver's door.

"You goin' too?" the archer asked.

"Uh… yeah—I told you yesterday."

"You said you were goin' out, no that you—" Daryl turned to face Paul "You doin' this to piss me off, right? Is this some kinda revenge?"

"I don't know, have you done something for me to have reason to want revenge?" The scout left some things in the driver's seat and then stood before Daryl, "Anyway, I don't have to do anything to piss you off, Dixon, you're pissed off around the clock."

Daryl huffed, ready to refute, but Tara stepped in standing in the middle of the two.

"Hey! Enough, okay? Can you two control those egos for a moment? You sound like a couple of divorcees and if you hadn't noticed, you have an audience."

Around them, the boys—who were ready to get into the cars—were trying to act normal while pretending not to be listening to the conversation.

Tara grabbed Daryl's arm and walked away with him.

"Daryl, it will be only a few days, you and Rosita can keep working with the rest—in addition, you two will have the trailer all for yourselves, which means more free space for, you know… _thinking_."

The archer finally went away uttering a string of incomprehensible phrases until he disappeared into his trailer.

If there was something that Paul had learned to loathe during those last weeks, was having to argue with Daryl, much less having to do it in that moment. Just a few days prior, they had expressed their feelings so vividly, and then the tension between them was impossible to hide, even for those who couldn't even imagine what had happened between the two. But he also knew that Daryl needed to learn a lesson somehow, and some time to think about his actions was the best way to achieve this.

Still, despite being several hundred miles away from Hilltop, Paul was still unable to take his thoughts off the archer. He wanted to return to the colony, he wanted to do it as soon as possible and talk to him, because that uncertainty was preventing him from concentrating on other things that were certainly more important, and though they had planned to leave the next day, the impatience was eating his nerves completely.

His mind suddenly turned to the van's large trunk in which he sat, when Tara dropped a box right next to him. They had found the vehicle the same day they had arrived, and they'd been stockpiling everything they had considered useful in there.

"Think this is the last box," the woman said, pushing it inside the vehicle, "I took some cans of cat food I've found by chance. It looks like that cat that follows Daryl everywhere has decided to move into the trailer with us."

Paul smiled, remembering that it had been right there, in that godforsaken place, where they'd seen _Cat_ for the first time. Then he stood up and placed the box with the rest of the provisions.

"I think with this we're good for at least a couple months," the scout said, then he sat back on the edge of the trunk, and Tara joined him, "you think it was a good idea to let the boys go on their own?"

That concern hadn't left his mind since they had left the house early in the morning. They had agreed to separate into two groups and use the day to finish exploring the town, and meet again in the evening to rest before leaving the next day. Once the sun came up, they would hide the Honda Civic and return to Hilltop, some in the van and others in Paul's 4x4.

"You can't hold their hand through everything, they have to learn to organize and make decisions on their own. The war is too close now and, once it breaks out—there, in the middle of it all… we're gonna be alone."

"I know, still, I keep wondering if all this is too much for them."

"It's too much for all of us, and they're here because they wanted to be."

Paul nodded, "where are Mandy and Marcus?" he asked then.

"Taking a look at small grocery store we found, it was almost hidden. It looked empty, but having a look won't hurt. I think Mandy's still a little mad at you for not letting her go with Eduardo's group."

"Yeah, well, we're on a mission here and that excludes getting it on while we're working," Paul said.

"Right… but now that you mention it, I found this for you," Tara said, posing in the space between them a pack of condoms.

The scout looked at it for a few seconds, like he was not sure what it was, but immediately after he felt his cheeks burn like he had been slapped.

"Wow! Jesus turning red as a stoplight, this is new."

Paul laughed, but he looked away, "we haven't talked yet, in fact I'm not even sure what will come out of that conversation, and you're already getting us into bed."

"That's because I trust in your ability to solve this absurd quarrel—and above all, I want you to do things safely."

"I've always been careful—anyway you've only brought me one pack, is that all the confidence you have?"

Tara laughed, opening her mouth to say something, but Mandy and Marcus suddenly appeared at a run, visibly upset.

Paul and Tara jumped out of the van when they saw them.

"What happened?" the woman asked.

"We went—we went—" Mandy said, trying to catch her breath, "we heard something, and climbed to the building's roof—we saw a white car speeding this way."

Paul looked at Tara, concern reflected all over his face, but before he could ask any more questions, they heard the sound of the tires and the white car came around the nearest corner, speeding toward them until it finally stopped dead in a cloud of dust. Eduardo, Dante and Andy got out running.

"What the hell happened?" Paul asked immediately, but his blood ran cold quickly, "where's Owen?"


	22. Chapter 22

The evening progressed quickly while Daryl was striven to fix the small hole in the roof of Tammy's trailer. The structure had a crack that, although was not very large, was letting the water seep through it into the flame-haired woman's kitchen. Luckily for her, it had been a dry summer, but the weather was changing already, and even though it hadn't rained yet, clouds across the sky were becoming more frequent.

The day before, the archer had fixed the problem Tammy had with the bathroom faucet, and the woman had agreed to wash his clothes the next afternoon. Today, after the training, Daryl had come to her trailer and Tammy gave him some of her husband's old clothes and, while she did her part of the deal, Daryl offered himself to fix the crack he had seen the previous evening.

It was not long before the sun slowly crept up behind the mountains, and was running a cool breeze for which the archer was thankful as he cleaned the sweat off his brow, and finished seal Tammy's roof with some metal pieces he had found around. However, and despite his good intentions, the task hadn't been a fortuitous choice. Daryl was conscious that once they finished the training day, his mind would be drifting to Paul again, a repeated occurrence over the past three days. The damned cat-charming hippie pothead had taken some of his boys without even telling him. Though that was not what bothered him the most, because he knew that, after all, being angry with him was just a poor excuse to avoid missing him as he actually did, even if he refused to admit it.

Still, thinking about his return caused him a slight pressure in the pit of his stomach. _Sit down and talk_. They needed to sit down and talk, that was true, but what would they speak of and what the hell was he going to say to Paul, when he finally had him in front of him—that he loved him? Those were big words, and the archer shivered just at the thought of them.

Daryl cared about him, yes, and of course there were feelings, he had not the slightest doubt about it, but what kind of feelings were those? He hadn't found the answer to that question yet. What he knew, at least, was that he wanted to spend with him the time they had from that very moment, until the inevitable war. Because, in the end, the archer knew that all the other possibilities and thoughts were only part of an uncertain future he did not want to consider.

"How are you doing, big kid?" Tammy asked from below.

"It's almost done."

"Your clothes are too, though you'll have to pick them up tomorrow."

"Okay, thanks…"

It looked like the flame-haired woman was going to say something else, but a sudden movement over the watch point turned their attention to the gates, which started to move suddenly with a sharp creak.

Daryl's heart flinched momentarily as he fixed his eyes on the sheet metal doors, and saw a van and a car he couldn't identify at first. However, he quickly distinguished Paul, who got out of the driver's seat of the larger vehicle, and went running to the watch point.

He didn't need anyone to announce it out loud; it was obvious that something had happened to them during the trip—the archer stopped what he was doing and got off the roof of the trailer with a jump. Then, without realizing Tammy followed his steps, he hurried over to Tara, who was standing next to the van.

"What's goin' on?"

"Owen's disappeared."

"What?" Maggie asked—she had spent much of the afternoon in the vegetable gardens but had joined them quickly.

"What d'ya mean?" the archer asked.

No one answered, though, because everyone turned to look at Paul who was approaching them with hasty but strangely dulled steps. His face, contorted by anxiety and worry, brought a lump to Daryl's throat. The archer turned to watch the boys; they all shared the same nervous and distressed look, though none of them said anything.

Maggie went to the scout, "what happened?" she asked before Paul could even think about saying anything.

Paul sighed and looked away, like he was trying to find the answer to that question somewhere else, "we split into two groups," he said, staring back at her, "Owen was with Eduardo, Dante and Andy—they say they saw a car in the distance; thought they could be saviors, and then Owen took the 4x4—on his own, and… and he went after them."

His voice sounded so tired and absent, that the man looked like he was about to faint at any moment, because of his physical and mental exhaustion.

Tara approached him, laying a hand on his shoulder, helping him relate what had happened. "We thought about going after him, but there are a lot of supplies in that van, we felt that the safest thing to do was to bring them here, stow them safely and then, calmly, think of a plan to go out and help Owen."

"Maybe he doesn't need help; maybe he'll just come back on his own…" Andy said suddenly.

None looked convinced about that, though it certainly was a possibility to consider.

"I have to tell his mother," Paul said, walking away from the group.

Maggie went after him, Daryl figured that she just wanted to be by his side, to support him, even if only morally. He would've liked to join them, he would've liked to be there for Paul in that moment, and to put a hand on his shoulder as Tara had done, and tell him everything would be okay, even if those were no more than empty words.

But his body didn't respond to his thoughts and soon the night fell over the colony—all returned to their homes for dinner, but the archer was not hungry, he didn't even want to be inside the trailer, so he sat on the entry steps, smoking, with _Cat_ by his side.

During the long time he spent there, the archer was unable to take his gaze from Barrington House's viewpoint, which stood out white as the snow against the dark night sky.

The trailer door opened when he was already lighting the second cigarette of the night, and his silhouette took form on the ground for a brief moment, until the door closed again and Tara sat beside him. They didn't talk; they simply let the night's calmness fill their ears for a few minutes.

"Why would he do something like that?" Tara asked, finally breaking the silence.

Daryl shrugged, "he wants to help, no matter what—but he's jus' a kid and doesn't think about the consequences of what he does."

"There's no need to be a kid to not think about the consequences of what one does."

Daryl didn't answer that because he knew Tara's words went far beyond Owen's actions. So they both fell silent again.

"He's up there," Daryl said, after a while, pointing to the viewpoint.

"How do you know?"

"I know—from there you can see several miles away. Any strange light moving on the horizon—he'll see it."

"What are you doing here, then? Why aren't you up there with him?"

"Because'm sure he wants to be alone, and anyway he don't need anyone to hang around tellin' bullshit jus' to make him feel good—that's not goin' to help."

"There's no need to say anything, Daryl. Words are words—perhaps he just needs to know you're there with him."

Daryl lowered his head and thought about what Tara had said for a moment. The truth was, there was nothing more he wanted to do than to go and be with Paul. And he was about to do it—he was about to get up and go into the house, but they suddenly saw some movement over the watch point, and before they could question anything, Paul came out running from Barrington House followed closely by Maggie.

Daryl and Tara got up instantly—behind them; they heard the trailer's door open.

"What's up?" Rosita asked.

"Two cars!" Kal shouted from the platform, "one's the 4x4!"

Alarmed, the three ran toward the gates.

"It might not be him, so be careful," Paul, warned, "I've seen more lights in the distance."

* * *

Paul's heart was beating on his chest like a hammer, but he didn't take his eyes off the doors as he watched them move slowly revealing, behind them, the 4x4 that he could almost consider as his own. The car, however, stood there like a stranger, and didn't move from where it had stopped, looking at them as a black bright-eyed monster, followed by another ghost illuminating it from behind.

The occupants of both cars got out as soon as the gates stopped moving and Paul knew, even before he could see him clearly, that it was again that carrion soul who certainly live up to his name. His stomach lurched, aware of the danger Owen might have incurred if he had met with them, though in some remote corner of his head, he hoped the boy had time to hide or flee.

Vulture appeared before them escorted by his men, armed with their heavy guns, like they were about to face a large army rather than a group of people who looked more like farmers than soldiers.

"Where did you find the car?" Paul snapped, stepping forward.

Behind him he knew that, besides Daryl, Tara, Rosita and Maggie, the rest of the guys had joined them, obviously concerned about the whereabouts of their friend.

"That's your first question? You not gonna ask about the boy?" Vulture shook his head from side to side. "What a disappointment."

Paul felt his heart stop for a few seconds.

"Where's my son?"

Paul immediately turned and saw Amelia approaching them with some other people.

"Amelia, no…" Maggie said, grabbing her arm gently to stop her.

"Don't worry, woman," Vulture said with sarcasm, "the boy's here, in the back seat, still walking on his own two feet."

"Let him go," Paul said then, "he's just a kid."

"He didn't look like a kid when he stabbed one of my men in the leg."

"Let him go," the scout insisted.

Vulture stepped forward, closing the distance between them, "after all this time, you still don't understand that _here_ we are the ones making the demands."

"You can ask whatever you want, but leave the boy alone."

"I have no interest in him, but having him there guarantees that you're not going to do something stupid like the other day. We have some business to discuss, and today, _my friend_ , you're gonna listen to me."

"Okay, I'll listen, but let him go."

"Don't worry, man, as I said, I'm not interested in him, I'll give him back to you, but you know how things work now—you'll have to give me something in return."

Paul let out a deep sigh.

"Paul…" he heard Maggie's restless voice behind him.

"What do you want?" the scout asked ignoring the woman's warning.

"Gregory. You give us Gregory and we give you the boy, I think it's fair exchange—and don't you fucking tell me again that he's dead," the man warned before the scout could say anything.

Vulture moved, taking another step forward, and standing just a foot away from Paul, "guess I should let you know, that one of our men back in that outpost _you_ attacked, survived—and after a week of not being able to stand up even to pee, he managed to utter some words. He insisted that, among all those cowards, he had seen that long-haired bearded asshole from Hilltop. Do you have anything to say about it? "

Suddenly, and for the first time in a long time, Paul felt his mind was completely blank—Unable to react, unable to decide and unable to reason. Meanwhile, he knew his people were there, with their eyes on him, hoping he would fix all that mess as was usual, but the scout felt that the whole situation was slipping completely out of his hands.

"Go into the house and bring him here," Vulture said then.

Paul moved in a vague attempt to stop them, but one of Vulture's men, came forward pressing the barrel of his rifle on his temple.

Behind them, was heard the scared murmur from the people who had gathered to see what was happening.

"I was there alone" the scout finally said, "Hilltop has nothing to do with what happened there. I went willingly."

"I might actually believe you, but _boy_ , the problem's a little bit more complicated than that. We had a deal with this community and you broke it. So, it's time for that inept and cowardly leader of yours to come out from the bed he's hiding under, and face this in front of his people."

Vulture took a couple of steps further, narrowing the distance between them, then put an arm around Paul and lowered his face to speak into his ear.

"Don't worry," he said in barely a whisper, "I have a different surprise prepared for you."

At that moment they heard commotion coming from the house, Vulture separated from him, and Paul turned to see what was happening. He saw the saviors come running out of the house and then surround it, disappearing behind it.

Paul wanted to take that brief moment of confusion to do something, but like he had foreseen his intentions, Vulture quickly placed his gun under his jaw.

"Pull any of that ninja shit again and I blow your brains out, asshole."

"Get away from him!"

The scout heard Daryl's deep voice behind him. Vulture looked up, his eyes meeting the archer's—he moved his mouth to say something, but the cries coming from the back of Barrington House, diverted everyone's attention.

"No! No!"

The saviors appeared again bringing Gregory with them, dragging him over the ground as the man tried to fight them off in vain. When they were close, they pushed him hard, and Gregory fell just in front of Vulture.

"The fucker was trying to escape through a trapdoor they have on the other side," one of the men said.

There was a loud murmur among those present, and Paul fixed his gaze on the man cowering like a frightened child, begging for them not to hurt him.

"Okay," Vulture said crouching in front of him, "are you gonna explain to me why we haven't received anything we'd agreed on this month?"

"I had no choice," he whined " _those_ from Alexandria—they came here, threatening to take everything if we didn't reach an agreement with them, we didn't have food for everyone!"

Paul rubbed his face in dismay, "You didn't send them food?"

"What else could I do? There was not enough, do you want to see Hilltop starve."

"You breached the agreement we had," Vulture said, "and you should know that Negan doesn't like that kind of shit."

"We have rice," Paul said then, "we have enough to feed a large group of people for months, we can arrange a new deal."

Vulture raised his eyebrows and stood up again, not taking his eyes off the scout, "wow… I'm surprised. I have to admit that I didn't expect this from you—but you certainly look a little bit desperate, you no longer ask for Negan to come here in person?"

Paul let out slightly, "I just want you to leave these people alone; they are not to blame."

Vulture smiled, "Now, I'm curious, what are you willing to do to resolve this?"

"Whatever you ask, but first let Owen go."

"Owen? Is that his name?"

Vulture placed an index finger on his lips, pretending to ponder the scout's words. Then, walked toward him with a grimacing mouth, "it's an interesting offer, but I'm afraid it comes a bit late" Vulture then gestured to his men. "Bring the boy out."

Two men approached the 4x4's back door, Paul tried to look at what they were doing, and see if Owen was fine, but the lights of the cars let him identify no more than three silhouettes—the saviors and someone else, someone they were pushing with difficulty. It looked like he had his head covered with a sack and his hands were tied behind his back.

The saviors stopped in front of the car, Paul looked at Owen and his blood froze in his veins. His heart started pumping so hard that he had to put a hand to his chest—he closed his eyes, unable to bear the scene before him. He didn't need to see his face—the way he walked, the way he shook his body to break free… but above all were those wrenching moans, muffled by the cloth that covered his head, that left no doubt.

"Owen?" he heard Amelia's shaky and hesitant voice.

Vulture then took off the bag that covered his face, and the murmur full of horror was instantaneous.

"Owen… No! No! No!"

Maggie and Rosita tried to hold Amelia, who desperately wanted to run to her son, not even aware of how dangerous that was.

"See, I keep my word, I told you that I'd give him back to you and here he is," vulture pushed him into the crowd, and Eduardo and Dante pounced on him before he could attack anyone.

The people's instinctively fearful cries filled the air. Paul stepped forward ready to lash out at Vulture's face, but someone threw their arms around him, holding him and preventing him from moving further.

"I'll kill you!"

"No," he heard Daryl's voice whispering in his ear, "don't do that Paul, don't—"

"I'll kill you!" the scout spat, unable to hear the archer's words as his eyes never left Vulture. "I swear, I'll kill you!"

At that moment they hear a creak coming from one of their radios.

"Two miles," said a voice on the other side.

Vulture laid his eyes on Paul, who had stopped fighting against Daryl's protective embrace.

"If you survive this night; I'll think about it."

"We have to go," one of his men urged, then he pointed to Gregory "What do we do with him?"

"Leave him, let him see with his own eyes what he's done to his community."

The saviors got into the vehicles again and drove away almost as quickly as they had come. Paul couldn't look away from those lights, and he frowned when he thought he saw them stop again not far from there.

The scout shook his head, trying to regain some of the serenity he had lost, but the people's shocked murmur around him was impossible to ignore.

Paul closed his eyes like that gesture was enough to ignore it, but it was not, and he realized in that moment that there, under the cries of their neighbors, was another strange and different noise—a hissing sound that seemed to come from outside. The scout looked up, watching through the still open doors; trying to focus his attention on that buzz, almost unaware that Daryl was still surrounding him with his arms.

"Paul" the archer said, "Paul…"

But the only thing he was able to listen was that new noise—it sounded like the engine of a car, perhaps even more than one, but was kind of different, sharper, and similar to the whistling noise when cars move backwards at high speed.

"Fuck!" Kal shouted from the watch point, "get away from the walls!"

The young man started to run the stairs, striding down the steps, as everyone watched him in bewilderment, but like an ill omen, the menacing sound became much more audible.

"Run!"

Alarmed, the crowd started to move quickly, trying to run away from the walls.

"C'mon! C'mon!" Daryl pulled Paul, trying to get him away from there as the noise whistled in the air like a missile.

The two ran away, but they had only managed to move a few feet when they heard a loud bang behind them. Turning, they watched in horror two large truck bodies broke into the community, bringing down Hilltop's walls as easily as a hand toppling a house of cards.

The inertia of the crash caused the cargo they carried inside to shoot out through the open doors.

"Oh my God!"

"Run! Run!"

People screamed and fled in panic; while Paul gazed with amazement at those same walkers he had seen them load into the trucks a few days prior.

"Paul! Paul! For fuck's sake! look at me!"

The scout blinked, startled, and met Daryl's blue eyes. The archer was holding his face with both hands, and shook him gently, like he was trying to wake him up from a bad dream.

"C'mon! C'mon! We have to kill 'em!"

Tara appeared there suddenly, giving him a knife, and immediately after, the echo of the bullets started to reverberate in his ears.

Paul rose from the ground, not aware of having fallen on his knees; He looked around for a moment and saw it clearly—he saw the trucks embedded in the walls, he saw the walkers moving like a mass within the community, he saw the people run trying to escape. He heard the anguished shrieks of those who failed to escape in time, and those who watched them succumbing to those creatures' deadly embrace.

The scout grabbed the handle of his knife and ran with the rest to try to end them all, and though he moved quickly, everything around him seemed to be happening in slow motion. The bullets, the knives gliding in the air, the blood of the living and the dead. The screams of horror, the cries of pain. But above all, the desperate cry of those men and women who had done nothing to be punished in such a way.

And everything seemed to end as soon as it had started, but when he pulled the bloody knife out of one of the last walkers alive, the dawn was already coloring the sky.

Paul looked around and saw the others who, like him, were watching the scene before them with astonished impotence. A colony, always quiet and safe, beaten and riddled with hundreds of bodies, most of them strangers whose unfortunate fate was unknown. But among them, were also familiar faces—people who had lived almost oblivious of a world that was much more hostile than they could have ever imagined.

Logan, Samuel, Holly, Mike, Bianca, Richard, Amber, Mark, Wesley… were just a few of them.

 _Owen_.

He had lost track of him as soon as the trucks destroyed those walls that had protected them firmly until that very moment, but he quickly spotted Amelia, kneeling beside her son's now inert body. Maggie came over and spoke to her. He didn't hear the conversation, but whatever Maggie said managed to coax her away.

Paul turned when he noticed that someone was approaching him and saw Daryl. There was blood staining nearly every inch of his body and clothing, and the scout couldn't help but scan him quickly in search of a cut, or a bite, or anything else that could indicate he was hurt. But Daryl seemed to be okay, and that managed to make him feel some relief outside all the pain and anger he was feeling at that moment.

"Never in my wildest thoughts, would I have imagined seeing Hilltop like this," Paul said in a small voice, and returning his gaze to the macabre image before them.

Daryl came closer to him—Paul could feel him, could feel the heat of his body, he even had the feeling that the archer moved a hand to put it on his back, but eventually he dropped it again.

"Remember Rick's words at the church back in Alexandria?" He continued.

The archer frowned.

"He said we had to kill them all" Paul then turned to look at Daryl's eyes. "Maybe we have to."

* * *

The heat of the flames warmed his face like a gentle caress in the middle of the cold night. His eyes never left the pillar of fire that rose in front of them drawing the silhouette of a demon that seemed to come from hell itself—raging flames consuming, with its incessant crackle, the bodies of all those unsuspecting innocents, who had perished in a trap that none of them could have prevented.

Daryl closed his eyes for a second, then opened them again and watched all the people in front of him, looking at the fire like they were still unable to believe what had happened. There were no tears, only grim faces that asked again and again what could they have done to be the target of such an unjust and cruel attack.

Maggie, Tara and Rosita were by his side, but it had been a few hours since he had seen Paul. After removing the trucks and the bodies of the walkers, they had spent most of the day organizing the farewell for their neighbors. Paul had been there all along, helping as everyone else did. But once they had prepared the pyre, the scout had disappeared.

Gregory was also gone; they hadn't seen him since the walls collapsed. Daryl had heard from some people that they had seen him hide in his room, but others claimed to have seen him take one of the cars and leave the community. The truth was that one of the vehicles was missing, so the archer wouldn't be surprised that, in honor of his known cowardice, the fucker had gone off, though he couldn't imagine where.

Daryl felt Tara's hand on his back, "have you seen him?"

The archer knew she was asking about Paul, and he shook his head, but immediately after he looked up and fixed his eyes over Barrington House's viewpoint, whose silhouette blurred under the glow of the flames. Tara stroked his back, like that was her way to encourage him, and Daryl didn't hesitate a second and walked toward the house.

The oranges and yellows of the pyre's flame vaguely lit the viewpoint when Daryl looked in, though at first glance he didn't see Paul. He was not sitting in the chair, as usual, but he did notice that there were a few empty bottles scattered over the floor.

Daryl frowned and scanned the small room, and saw him immediately; in a corner, sitting on the floor, partially hidden by the shadows—there was Paul.

"I should put a lock on that door," the scout said, dragging the words.

Daryl watched him with astonishment, "you're drunk?"

"Not enough… most of those bottles were half empty… but I took this Scottish Whisky from Gregory…" he said, raising a hand in the air and showing him the bottle. "The fucker had it well hidden; must be good… _bal_ … _balbl_ …" he babbled trying to read the label, "whatever…"

Paul pushed the bottle of liquor to his lips and Daryl shook his head.

"Gimme that," he said approaching him.

"Don't you take another step," the scout snapped gravely.

The archer stopped in the middle of the room, watching the man in front of him who seemed to be only a distant shadow of the confident, serene and determined person he'd always proved to be.

"What are you doin'?" Daryl asked.

"I have a bottle of whiskey and I'm drinking it… so guess."

"You ain't like this, Paul, you—"

"What makes you think you you know who I am! Huh?… Ben didn't and I lived with him for five years… the hell would you know!"

Daryl threw his head back, feeling a twinge in his chest. He knew it was the alcohol that was speaking, but he couldn't deny that those words had hurt him. Words that came out of the scout's mouth with anger and bitterness, despite the hard time he was having pronouncing them with coherence.

"But don't _woooorry_ " he continued, "tomorrow I'll be _Jesus_ again… that cheerful and talkative idiot who's here to solve everyone's fucking problems…"

"Wasn't your fault…"

Paul made a sound with his mouth, "don't wanna hear that shit…"

"Sorry, but yer gonna hear me," Daryl replied gravely, sitting in the chair opposite him.

"No."

"Paul…"

The scout took his hands to his face, hiding it for a moment, "I made the same fucking mistake twice," he said in a barely audible whisper, like that was just a thought said aloud.

Then he removed his hands off his face, picked up the bottle again and took a long swallow. Despite the darkness, Daryl could see that his eyes shone with tears.

"Not everyone is ready to face this world—why do we insist on forcing them…" he continued, speaking absently, like those words were not looking for anyone to listen to them.

"Does that have anythin' to do with Abbie?" Daryl asked.

Suddenly Paul's eyes fixed on the archer's like a pair of spears, but the scout said nothing.

"Paul…"

"I don't want to talk about that…"

"Listen—"

"No!" he snapped, raising his voice, and moving the hand with the bottle in the air, "why don't you go away and leave me alone! Give me a fucking break for once, dammit!"

Ignoring the scout's words, Daryl rose from his chair and sat on the floor in front of him, trying to take the bottle off his hands.

"No! no…"

"Paul… Paul… enough, damn it! stop acting like a fucking kid!"

The scout gave a slight laugh, "It's funny _you_ say that."

However, Paul gave up fighting and Daryl finally took the bottle off his hands.

"Maybe."

"I don't want to talk…" the scout grumbled suddenly.

"Okay, don't talk, but I ain't goin' anywhere."

Paul shook his head, "the last time you said that, you ran off like a scared baby."

"I s'pose we both are behavin' like children, then," Daryl moved a little closer to him, "look, if you want me to go—I'll go, but only if _you_ ask me, Paul Monroe, not this other person sat here, that's lettin' the Whisky numb his tongue and his brain."

Paul lowered his head in shame and Daryl felt a great unease to see him like this. He didn't want to push him further, but he knew that Paul needed to talk, he needed to throw out all that guilt and helplessness he kept to himself and that, as a silent disease, was slowly consuming him inside.

"What happened?" the archer asked softly.

The scout took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes, then glanced at the window, the yellow and orange lights of the pyre flickered through it.

For a moment Daryl thought that Paul would refuse to answer again, but the scout threw his head back and closed his eyes.

"We hadn't found this place yet," he said, then opened his eyes again and fixed them on his hands, fingers played, nervous, not knowing what to do now that he no longer had the bottle, "things were not going quite well out there… we hadn't found a stable place to stay and the people we met along the way… well, we had some problems."

Paul paused and rubbed his forehead like to erase some of those memories that Daryl was sure were crossing through his head.

"Abbie was only _six_ years old," he continued "and I urged her to learn to fight—to defend herself, because I couldn't always be there for her. Abbie tried, she really did, but she was just a little girl… she didn't understand why she had to do that, or why everything was as it was, or why she couldn't go back home… I didn't insist; I didn't want to put that pressure on her… but one day we were checking a supermarket—it was something easy, the place looked like it was empty and quiet, but I don't know what happened… I don't know how I didn't see it coming, but in a blink we were surrounded by walkers… they were everywhere. I tried to get her to safety, but the exit was blocked. I fought—killed a few, but they still were too many. I listened to her crying, scared and I couldn't help but think that if I died there, she wouldn't get out alive either."

 _Paul felt the adrenaline running through his veins as he moved back and forth between the shelves and the bodies of the dead he had already gotten out of the way. The beings came in after tearing down a false wall that was at the back of the store, a bottomless pit that seemed to send those creatures out in a never-ending loop._

 _Paul glanced quickly to where he had left Abbie. The girl was at the top of one of the shelves, but the creatures knew she was there, and were trying to grab her up with the desperation of hungry animals—hitting the shelves and causing them to wobble like flimsy sheets of paper._

 _"No!" the small girl shouted, kicking the hands of those clinging to the shelves, with her own feet._

 _Paul brandished his knife quickly trying to get back to Abbie, but one of those walkers he thought he had killed, grabbed his trousers' leg causing him to fall to the floor._

 _"Paul!"_

 _Paul fought it until he managed to stick the knife into its skull, but before he could get up, he heard the roar and the frightened cry behind him. When he turned, he saw in horror that creatures had managed to knock down the shelves. Paul got up quickly; his heart was beating so fast that he could barely feel it against his chest, and his breath caught in his throat when he saw one of those walkers crawling like a reptile over the shelf on the floor, trying to get to Abbie, who was on the other side still stunned by the fall._

"I wasn't able to see, but suddenly the creature pushed over the shelf. I don't know how, but Abbie had stuck a metal rod through one of its eyes."

 _Paul took the girl in his arms and left the store in a hurry, and didn't stop running until the village was no more than a silhouette in the distance._

 _When he felt they were safe, Paul left the girl on the ground and examined her quickly, trying to ensure that those bloodstains were not hers._

 _"You okay? Did they bite you?"_

 _"I'm fine…" the girl answered with a surprising calm._

 _"You sure?"_

 _Abbie nodded and then again, she clung to Paul's neck._

"After that, she didn't cry, nor did she ask any questions—she was completely in shock. We spent that night in a house that we found halfway. In the early morning, she scared me; she was not in her sleeping bag, but I found her in an adjoining room—there were feathers and stuffing everywhere, and she was sitting there in the middle, furiously digging one of my knives into a teddy bear."

Paul took a deep breath clearly disturbed, after remembering that image. Daryl leaned slightly forward and took one of Paul's hands, and Paul looked up for the first time since he had begun to speak, "the next day she asked me to teach her to fight. We practiced every day, and she was good at it, so good that she sometimes even scared me," Paul laid his eyes on the archer's hand, who stroked his unconsciously, with his thumb, "we continued our trip and then one day these walls appeared on the horizon. They still hadn't built them up completely, but as you can imagine it was like finding an oasis in the desert."

"Owen told me that Gregory didn't want you here."

Paul was silent for a second, "It's true… and frankly I wouldn't give two shits if it hadn't been for Abbie, but we finally found a place where she could stop looking around warily and behave like what she was again—a little girl. It wasn't easy at first, but she adapted to this much faster than me, and I didn't care, all I wanted was to see her happy, see her play with the other kids, laugh, and enjoy the closest thing to a normal life that she could have again."

The scout paused and sighed, like he was preparing mentally to tell that part of the story which he had long shunned. Daryl shifted again, moving even closer to him, squeezing his hand.

"Time flew by in a blink of an eye—two fucking years… but we were working so much that it was like I wasn't paying attention. I remember one day I woke up and I found a piece of paper taped to the door with the number eight drawn on it. At first I didn't understand what it meant, until I realized that she was turning eight that day."

Paul smiled quietly, though it was a sad smile, and Daryl could see the tears forming in his eyes again. His voice also faded away when he spoke again, becoming shaky and slow.

"It happened two weeks after her birthday. I was talking to Kal because I was planning to go out to explore some areas that I hadn't tracked down yet. Then one of her friends, Anna, came to me and gave me a really cute bouquet of flowers."

 _"Flowers?" Paul asked surprised._

 _The girl lowered her head trying to hide the blush that lit her cheeks._

 _"They're beautiful Anna…" he said, tenderly stroking the girl's head._

"But I soon realized that something was wrong… those flowers… those flowers didn't grow within the colony."

 _Paul frowned as he studied the flowers carefully._

 _"Where did you find them?"_

 _Anna lifted her face, mouth moving wordlessly, her face going from a look of intense shyness to the look of a child who has just been caught doing something he should not. But the words didn't come out of the girl's throat, because the screams out from there put them all on alert._

 _Paul was the first to move, though he knew more people followed him. They skirted the big house and came to the trapdoor realizing, astonished, that it was not locked._

 _Even before they could get through it to cross to the other side, three children—Hugo, Andrea and Elliot, came running and crying, terrified. Outside of the colony, they found Lucke, who ran to the trapdoor desperately trying to get to safety._

 _The scout saw immediately what it was that had frightened the children. There was a dead walker on the ground, and a little further was another one. The being was kneeling with its back to all of them, hunched like a predator over its prey._

 _"Oh my God!" someone exclaimed behind him._

 _Paul felt a chill coursing through his body, but he didn't think twice and ran, killing the creature, and dragging it away from there, away from the body lying motionless on the ground._

 _"Somebody call Harlan!"_

 _He didn't know who had spoken, in fact he was not able to distinguish any of the voices or cries that were heard around him. He could only watch the little girl. Abbie. Her chest moving slowly, showing that she still had a thread of life._

 _Paul fell to his knees beside her. There was blood everywhere, but he wouldn't look beyond those green eyes watching him, full of confusion._

 _"Abbie, honey…" he said, trying to sound calm not to frighten her more than she probably was already, but his voice quivered, and tears came to his eyes before he could do anything about it._

 _"I—didn't—I—I see them come—" she said in a whisper, words drawling out with difficulty._

 _"Shhh… shhh… don't say anything, don't speak… look into my eyes Abbie—you're fine… okay? You're with me. It's okay… it's okay…"_

 _"I—I'm—I'm cold."_

 _Someone, he didn't see who, removed his jacket and gave it to him immediately. Paul covered the girl with it._

 _"Okay… okay, honey—you're better now… you feel better?"_

 _But she didn't answer, she just stared at him. Paul brushed the damp hair that clung her small face, unable to hold back the tears that stung his eyes any longer._

"You know what she told me before her voice trailed off forever?… she stroked my face and said _don't cry anymore_."

The scout put his hands to his face, then, trying to hide the tears that spilled from his eyes, and the archer felt his heart broke in that very moment. He had never seen Paul so dejected and vulnerable, and imagined how hard it had to be for him, not only to see the girl go in his own arms, but having to handle himself to prevent her from coming back again.

"Hey, hey…" Daryl grabbed his hands pulling them away from his face, "Okay, it's okay—you can cry all you want."

Paul shook his head, like he was embarrassed for exposing himself like that, and Daryl couldn't take it anymore; he leaned forward and the two merged into a hug full of warmth and tenderness, and for once the scout didn't fight and cried against the archer's shoulder until there were no more tears to shed.

When they finally separated, Paul wiped his cheeks but he didn't look up.

"A couple of days after all that," he said, "I learned that Lucke was able to reach the trapdoor because Abbie had killed the walker on the ground. Then I also found out that the reason they were going outside the colony was because she had convinced them that they needed to learn how to fight, as she had done—she told them she would teach them, and that they had nothing to fear about, if anything happened, she would protect them…" Paul sighed loudly, "fuck…"

"Hey… you did what you had to do, what you taught her saved the life of another kid."

"She didn't have to take them out there, in the first place. She put the lives of all those children in danger. But that's what I taught her—I taught her to be confident, not to be afraid of anything… dammit, she was just a little girl."

There was a moment of silence.

"I've seen Carl grow" Daryl said then, "I'm sure he's spilled more blood than any of the people here together. I s'pose there's no time to be a kid anymore in this world."

Paul said nothing, and Daryl raised a hand to place it on his cheek, his thumb erasing one of the tears that still dampened his face.

"I understand why you feel this is your fault, but you were right—you were right back then and you were right now. They need to face the reality. Many of those people who died yesterday, did it 'cause they didn't know how to handle a situation like that." Daryl paused briefly, and after seeing that Paul had no intention to speak, he went on: "ya know? an idiot told me once that no matter how much you blame yourself, they're not coming back."

A shy smile drew up the corners of the scout's lips, "didn't you kick his ass?"

Daryl laughed. "I punched him," he said, but his expression darkened instantly, "and I regret it every day."

Finally, Paul looked up, fixing his eyes on Daryl's, and the archer did it again. This time, though, he was fully aware of what he was doing—he leaned forward and placed his lips on the scout's; a sweet and tender kiss, and unlike the last time, Paul responded to it.

Daryl felt the scout's warm hand on his face, and his beard rubbing against his skin while his mouth toyed softly with his.

"I'm sorry," the arched said when they finally separated, "would've liked to tell you in another situation, but… I'm sorry, didn't mean anythin' I said."

The scout didn't speak, he only looked into that archer's eyes, and Daryl knew—as he felt him touch his cheek tenderly, that that look was more than enough.

"Are you going to run again?" Paul then asked.

"No. No," he replied firmly, "I want to be here… with you."

"You sure?

"I'm sure."

"Confess, archer, you're saying all this because you think that tomorrow I won't remember a thing, right?"

Daryl huffed, "you can't help yerself, eh?" he protested, even if he couldn't contain the smile that formed on his lips, "you couldn't hold that joker back; not even for a second."

The scout laughed, and Daryl was glad to see some of the light return to his eyes.

Daryl then moved and sat next to him, he snatched the bottle of whiskey back and took a long gulp.

"Okay," he said handing it back to Paul, "let's drink tonight… but there's a lot of work to do tomorrow."


	23. Chapter 23

The light struck his eyelids like an enraged whip. Paul shrank in bed with a groan of pain, burying his face in the pillow. But it was a futile gesture, because all of a sudden the room was so bright that he felt like a helpless vampire under the sun.

"Get up!"

If it weren't for the confusion that prevented him from reasoning appropriately in that moment, Paul would have sworn that that foreign voice—that bounced against his eardrums like a jackhammer—was Daryl's.

The scout squeezed his eyelids trying to avoid that damn disturbing light, and almost instantly the images of the night before projected through his head as quick flashbacks—his escape to the viewpoint, his pathetic attempt to get drunk, Daryl appearing there, Abbie's story; the kiss.

The scout felt a sudden tingling in the stomach. They had kissed again. Yes, they had done it again, but not only that, Daryl had opened himself as he had never done before, and had said that he wanted to be with him. An act of sincerity that they had accompanied with the Whiskey he had stolen from Gregory, in some kind of bittersweet celebration. They had drunk. Yes. They drunk a lot. They had drunk so much that Paul couldn't remember any of what happened there after the two had finally confessed their feelings to each other. He was unable to recall what they had talked about—if they had even talked about anything at all—or how he had come to his room.

Paul suddenly felt a disturbing pressure in his chest—what if all those memories were nothing more than figments of his imagination? What if all those things in his head were merely a result of drunkenness? What if none of that had really happened?

Paul tried to open his eyes again to check who the hell was in the room disturbing his sleep and tranquility in such a way, but the sunlight forced its way into his retinas like a punch would had done, leaving him completely blind.

"Oh, fuck…" he groaned, covering his face.

"C'mon, cranky, get out of bed."

Paul sighed halfway between weariness and relief. Yes, he may be blind but not deaf. That, no doubt, was Daryl's voice, and the fucker had just removed the sheets from the bed, without any hint of pity, exposing him completely.

"The hell are you doing!" the scout blurted, trying to sit up and cover himself with his linen shield, but his stomach lurched and Paul fell back on the bed. "God! I think I'm gonna puke…"

"I'd be surprised if you had anythin' left in your stomach."

With much effort Paul finally opened his eyes, and saw Daryl's silhouette standing beside the bed. The scout blinked a few times until he finally saw his face clearly. Paul tried to sit up again, but everything around him was spinning.

"Shit… I think I'm dying…"

Daryl laughed, "I was right, you can't hold your liquor."

"That Whiskey had to be bad or something."

"Sure… c'mon, sit up."

"I can't…"

"Yes, you can. I brought water—you need to drink it."

The archer came and helped Paul to sit on the bed.

"I swear I'm gonna throw up."

"Yer not gonna throw up, what you need is to drink some water—here" Daryl insisted passing him a glass full of transparent liquid.

Paul sipped the water slowly, letting the liquid ease the dryness he was feeling in his mouth and throat, and settle his stomach.

"I brought a pill."

"A pill?"

"Yeah, it's for your stomach."

Paul stared at Daryl for a few seconds "so you're an expert in hangovers, how lucky for me…"

"Yer lucky no one else came in. I'm sure you woke the whole house up hurlin' yer guts out all night. And be glad I didn't have some scissors on hand cause—let's make things clear here—I'm not gonna spend another two hours holdin' yer damn hair back so you don't puke in it."

Although he knew that, in his own way, Daryl was simply joking, Paul felt totally ashamed. The last few weeks had been a real roller coaster of events and emotions, and though he had tried to keep his shit together despite the circumstances, the attack from two days ago had finally managed to break him down. And despite everything, Paul knew there were no excuses for his behavior—shutting himself in to get drunk while he blamed himself for what had happened was't just a sign of weakness, it was also a cowardly act; and the fact that Daryl had seen everything, didn't improve the situation at all.

"I'm an idiot," the scout said, lowering his voice.

The archer sat on the edge of the bed, "we all are," he replied, filling the glass with more water and giving it back to him, "told you that sooner or later you would end up exploding—won't lie, didn't like seein' you like that, but I wasn't surprised."

Paul took the glass and drank, then he took the pill.

"You didn't steal it, right?" Paul asked.

Daryl grimaced, "thought about it, but Harlan was in the trailer, so I just told him you were sick—didn't ask any questions, he just gave it to me. Alex was there, though… he wanted to come see you, but I put that idea out of his head."

"And I'm sure you were all charm while you told him…"

Daryl just groaned and the scout sighed. Paul knew that Daryl and Alex didn't get along particularly well, and though what was happening between him and the archer was still a mystery even for them, he didn't want to imagine how the nurse would react when he heard about it.

"You feeling better?" Daryl asked, drawing him out of his thoughts.

"Yeah… yeah."

Paul glanced at the window, thoughtfully, "thanks…" he said in a whisper.

"Why?"

"For being there."

"Said I'd be there."

"I know… but it's one thing to share a couple of kisses and another to have to babysit me while I threw up all over the place."

"I've seen worse; I'll get over it—now get outta that damn bed."

The archer got up and took the glass off his hands.

"Have some compassion, man!"

"No time for that, there's work to do and those people need you, especially now that that fucker Gregory has fled."

"I'd almost forgotten about that… where the hell has he gone?"

"Don't know and don't care, all I want is to see you out of that bed."

"You know what? I'm starting to hate you."

"This is just the beginning, man."

* * *

Outside the house, all seemed quieter than Paul had expected, though the scout thanked the apparent calm almost as much as the cool breeze that whipped his face for helping to wake him up.

His neighbors were working hard already to clean up the area where the walls had been damaged, and prepare everything for the construction of the new ones. Norton—a man of about forty-five that in his previous life had been a builder, had helped to select the wooden posts which he thought could still be useful, and directed everyone in rebuilding the walls.

"We have a lot of poles, but we'll need more," he had added.

Maggie was quick to organize a group to go out to find everything they needed, and provisionally, the entrance to the community would be blocked by the same trucks that had brought on the situation.

"We'll put more people on watch if necessary" Maggie had said "but we'll work as hard was we can to rebuild the walls as soon as possible."

So while some went out to find all the necessary materials for the construction, the rest started to set the wooden posts that would be used.

Paul, Daryl and Tara had helped for much of the morning. Meanwhile, Maggie was working with another group of people to prepare enough food for all of them.

By mid-morning they had arranged a few tables that the neighbors had brought from their own trailers, and sat outdoors to eat together; to rest and regain strength to continue working during the afternoon.

"Where's Rosita?" Daryl asked.

"She left for Alexandria," Maggie replied, "Rick has to know what's happened here. They should be prepared just in case."

"They won't attack Alexandria," Paul said, "it's obvious this was planned for us."

"Yeah, maybe; they should be careful anyway."

After lunch everyone had returned to work, and Paul was cleaning a long ditch, when he saw Amelia approach him with firm and resolute steps. The scout took a deep breath, not sure what to expect from the woman, but still he stood to greet her.

"Amelia…"

Owen's mother said nothing for a moment, a few seconds that seemed like minutes, until Paul finally saw the woman shifted her position slightly.

"It would be very easy for me to be angry with you," she said then.

There was no hatred in her voice, but he could make out a huge frustration and helplessness. Paul lowered his head and sighed, "I'm sorry for what happened, Amelia, I—"

"Don't be; there's no time to lament, no need to commiserate. We let this happen; All of us—you… just kill them." And with that, the woman turned away again.

Paul stood there, watching her, with her brief but concise words echoing in his head. _Kill them_. Suddenly, that didn't seem as likely as it had done weeks ago. He knew they could face them, despite the casualties, but there was something the saviors had that they lacked—a perversion impossible to match. And to defeat that brutality, they would need a lot more than good intentions.

"You're good?"

Paul turned to find Daryl, "yeah…"

"You sure?"

The scout smiled at the archer's concern, "yeah."

Daryl approached him, placing a hand on his back, caressing him gently.

"Good… let's keep working then."

Shortly before sunset, the group that was out came back with lots of telephone poles that they had found on the road.

"We may need more," Norton said, "but we can start working with this."

For dinner, they prepared an abundance of food again, but the temperatures lowered with sunset, and the neighbors preferred to go to eat in their respective homes.

After a well deserved shower, and a change of clothes to something more comfortable, Paul sat at the desk in his room. Before him, on the table, was the paper on which he was trying to write down all the things he could remember seeing at the savior's settlement. There were only nine days left to meet with Rick and Ezekiel again, and that information was very important. But his mind was not allowing him to concentrate.

He rubbed his neck trying to ease the tension when someone knocked on the door. The scout invited the visitor inside and Maggie entered the room a few seconds later. Paul smiled at her.

"How are you?" the woman asked, "I've been told you were not feeling well today, that you had a stomach cramp or something."

"Is that what you've been told? Well, it's a nice embellishment, for sure, but it's actually just a killer hangover," Paul replied honestly.

Maggie gave him a warm smile, then took away some books that Paul had over a chair, and pulled it to sit beside him, "to be honest, I'm neither surprised, nor disappointed."

"It was a stupid thing to do…"

"Maybe, but you're better now, right?"

"Yeah, you could say that I am—anyway, how are you feeling? With all this mess I haven't had a second to ask you."

"I'm fine," she replied, drawing her hands over her swollen belly "he's growing fast and healthy."

Paul smiled, "I've seen what you did today, you organized everything with incredible patience and precision, but I'm not sure whether you should take care of this now; it's not your responsibility, Maggie, and you need to rest."

"I'm fine, just trying to help, contribute with ideas, and look out for what's best for everyone."

Paul simply nodded.

"And talking about what's best for everyone," she continued, "it looks like you and Daryl have smoothed things over."

The scout glanced out the window but the blush that lit his cheeks was almost instantaneous.

"Jeez…" he said, hands to his face, "I look like a damn teenager."

Maggie let out a small laugh, "everything's all right then?"

"Yeah, everything's all right."

Maggie pinned her curious eyes on the scout, blinking innocently as she waited for him to go further in his response.

"Maggie…!" Paul protested, but couldn't help but laugh.

"C'mon! You can't blame me for being curious—I prefer to know the official version than listen to what others say, because, in case you didn't know, people are starting to gossip, already."

"They can gossip all they want, I don't care," he said, rising from his chair and approaching the window.

There was a knock on the door in that moment.

"Come in," the scout said.

The door opened and Daryl popped his head inside. Paul quickly looked at Maggie who didn't bother to hide the huge smile that had formed on her face.

"Maggie…" the archer said somewhat surprised to see her there.

"Hi!" she said getting up and approaching him, "how do you feel? How's your arm?"

"Fine… arm's fine," Daryl cleared his throat, "What 'bout you? How's little Glenn doin'?"

"Active, like his father."

The three smiled at that statement.

"Glad to hear that," the archer said.

"Well, I—I think I'm going now," Maggie said, turning to dedicate an accomplished smile to Paul, "see you tomorrow."

As Maggie shut the door Paul sat back at his desk. Suddenly, he felt nervous, and he didn't understand why—they had already confessed what they felt, they had opened up to each other, they had even kissed. But still, Paul knew that they had to face the hardest part of that whole affair, and that was to decide where they wanted their relationship to go.

Paul looked at Daryl, who was standing in the middle of the room, beside the bed, shifting constantly, visibly uncomfortable. The scout stretched out a leg and moved the chair Maggie had occupied with his foot, inviting him to sit.

"How's your stomach?" Daryl asked, coming over and taking a seat.

"Good," he said pointing at the pitcher of water on the desk, "I followed your advice."

"For once…"

"Yeah, for once."

The two went silent, and for a long time none of them said anything. But Paul couldn't take his eyes off Daryl, who ducked his head, gaze fixed on his nervous hands that toyed with each other, while his knee jerked up and down rapidly.

"What's wrong?" Paul asked.

The scout's words managed to get Daryl even more nervous, "I don't know—I uh… don't—don't know what to do."

Paul lifted slightly and pulled his chair forward until their knees touched, "Hey…" he said gently, placing a hand on his, "you don't have to do anything, okay? I'm just glad to see that you're here."

Paul gently brushed the strands of hair hid his eyes aside, and Daryl looked up at him.

"Wow, your hair is clean…" the scout said, trying to joke and relieve the archer's tension.

Daryl smiled, and his cheeks turned a soft pink color.

"Smells good," Paul continued.

"Shut up…"

Daryl shook his head in shame but both ended up laughing quietly.

"Look," the scout said placing a hand on Daryl's cheek, "it doesn't matter if you don't have much experience, I assure you this is as new to you as it is for me. Just be yourself, okay? I don't expect anything else from you. I don't want you to feel obliged to please me or something like that, if that's what's going through your head—do what you want to do, what you feel like doing, no pressure, no—"

The words got lost in the air as Daryl leaned forward, placing his lips on the scout's.

"Okay…" Paul said, smiling against the archer's mouth, "I'm fine with this…"

They kissed for a long time, sharing short and tender kisses—kisses with which they studied each other; slow kisses Paul fought not make more hard and demanding. The scout didn't want to scare Daryl again, and wanted to let him be the one to set the pace, to show him how far he was willing to go. Still, Paul couldn't help but rub his tongue against his lips, and Daryl responded with a low sound in his throat.

After a few minutes that felt like hours, they separated, looking at each other's eyes.

"This… ain't bad," Daryl said suddenly.

Paul smiled, surprised by the archer's modest but sincere reaction.

"Yeah… not bad."

Daryl looked away for a second, showing that shyness was still reluctant to let him go, then he cleared his throat.

"What were you doing?" he asked.

"I was trying to write down everything I saw in the savior's settlement."

Daryl took the paper and read, then looked at the scout, raising an eyebrow.

"This is all?"

"I know…" he said dropping his shoulders reluctantly, "but I haven't been able to concentrate."

"Lemme help you—we can also make a list of what I saw, we can even draw a map."

"Yeah, that's a good idea."

They worked for a couple of hours, writing everything that their memory had managed to retain. They drew an exterior map of the settlement, noting the places where the guards stood, where the doors were located, the area occupied by the impaled walkers and where the discharge pipe that Paul had used to get inside was. They also made a sketch of the inside; where the cells were located, and where Paul thought their arsenal was.

"Okay, enough," Daryl said after Paul yawned for the fifth time.

"No, let's finish this, I'm fine…"

"You have to rest."

"We all do."

"Yeah, the difference is that others get to sleep while you don't" Daryl rubbed his forehead with concern, "fucking sake, Paul, have you looked yourself in the mirror? You're not fine, and it scares me to see you this tired. We have only one week till all this shit explodes, and I have the feelin' that your mind won't be ready for it, and you'll probably do somethin' stupid, and—"

"Okay, okay," he said putting the pen on the table, "I'm gonna sleep, but only because you look extremely adorable when you get so worried."

Daryl huffed, "I'm serious, asshole. Do you ever—"

"Yes, I take things seriously. I take this _very_ seriously, Daryl—don't worry, I'll get into bed right now."

"All right…"

"All right."

Paul stared at the archer, who seemed about to get up to leave the room, but nevertheless didn't move from his seat.

"I—I'll see you tomorrow," he said then.

Daryl rose from his chair and walked reluctantly toward the door with slow, hesitant steps. Paul didn't take his eyes off him, it was obvious that Daryl didn't seem ready to go yet and he had to admit he didn't want him to do so.

"You don't have to go," the scout said softly.

Daryl turned to face him, "What?"

"You can stay if you want."

The archer blinked a few times like suddenly those words had been uttered in a foreign language, and he was trying to decipher their meaning. Then he shifted nervously.

"Just to sleep…" Paul clarified.

Daryl lowered his head, sighing as he blushed intensely, "I hate this…"

"What?"

"Reacting like a fuckin' child—things shouldn't be so complicated, right? Sex is jus'… sex"

Paul got up from his chair and approached him, "yeah, sex is sex, but this is different; having sex with someone just for pleasure isn't the same as sleeping with someone you care about."

"Yeah, well—I guess…" the archer said ducking his gaze.

"Hey… it's okay, forget it, I shouldn't have asked you for something like that. Let's take things slowly, there's no—" Daryl shook his head from side to side "what?"

"You talk like we have all the time in the world."

"I don't care, Daryl, already told you—for me it's enough to know you're here. I don't want you to feel uncomfortable or forced to do things you may not be ready for; just because _there's no time_."

"I—I want to stay," Daryl said then, "but I know if I stay, even if it's only to sleep, you won't rest, and you really need to rest."

"Who knows, maybe you'll have the same effect as a teddy bear and I'll finally get some sleep."

They both laughed but Daryl shook his head.

"Okay," the scout said, moving his hands in a gesture of defeat, "you know what? I'm not that used to rejection, and this is the third time in less than a week."

"I'm glad I'm the one to get your head out of your ass."

"I believe you—I wonder, at what point did you become the voice of reason between the two of us?"

"Someone has to while you go around acting like a damn superhero."

"Okay, enough—get out my room!" the scout said laughing.

Daryl also laughed, showing himself more relaxed, and Paul smiled, relieved—he stepped back, but then he noticed the archer's attire and frowned.

"Wait a second… you also washed your clothes?"

Daryl shrugged, "Tammy did."

"Tammy?" Paul asked, raising his eyebrows in amazement.

"Yeah… we made a deal, she uhm—she also took care of this," he said putting a hand inside his vest and pulling out the scout's black bandana, "actually, I came to give it back to you—it was less wrinkled when she gave it to me, though."

Paul looked at him for a moment, surprised—he had completely forgotten about the kerchief. He recalled removing it to place it on Daryl's injured arm, but he hadn't thought about it since then, and couldn't help but feel some surprise to see that the archer not only had kept it, but he also went looking for a way to clean it before giving it back to him.

The scout smiled, touched by a gesture that at first glance might seem insignificant, but he knew that it wasn't for Daryl, and certainly wasn't for him.

"Thanks…" he said, taking it back, "I'm surprised Tammy didn't rip your head off, though."

"She was 'bout to, till she realized it was yours—don't ask me why, but for some weird reason, these people respect you."

Paul curved the corners of his mouth slightly.

"Uhm… well I—I guess I'll see you tomorrow, then," Daryl said, nervous again.

The scout's smile became even more intense, "given the fact that we have no other place to go… yeah, guess I'll see you tomorrow."

Then Paul took a step forward again, pushing back some of those strands of hair that kept hiding the archer's face.

"Seriously, Daryl… relax," he said, lowering his voice.

"Told you I ain't good at this…"

"It's not that hard, just say: _goodnight_."

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight…"

"Conversations always gonna be this stupid?"

"It's just the first phase, but you could also choose to say nothing and kiss me."

"Okay…"

The archer stepped forward, placing both hands on Paul's face and his lips touched the scout's again. It was a very tender and shy kiss at first, but ended up turning into something more urgent and intense. Paul pressed his body against the archer's, deepening the touch, this time letting his tongue brush unashamedly against Daryl's lips, asking for more, much more, until Daryl opened his mouth, groaning gravely, as their tongues met.

Paul felt his body lit, the heat spreading through every inch of his skin like a molten river, and he let out a deep moan as their bodies pressed against each other even further, and he felt the archer's erection pressing against his own.

He should stop, Paul knew he had to before his brain disconnected with the rest of his body and he lost control of the situation. But to his surprise, it was Daryl who placed his hands on his shoulders and pushed him away gently.

The two men stared at each other as they tried to recover their breath. The archer's cheeks were dyed a deep red, as Paul could also feel his own.

"You have to rest…" Daryl repeated slowly, emphasizing each word.

"Do you really think I'll be able to sleep now?"

"You better," the archer said taking a couple of steps back.

"This is the fourth time, man…"

Daryl couldn't help but laugh as he opened the door.

"Yeah, laugh all you want, but I swear I'm gonna dissolve like the witch from _The Wizard of Oz_."

"Is that a book or something?"

"Go away!"

"Good night," the archer said closing the door behind him.

Paul smiled, shaking his head, but the smile faded away quickly. He dropped himself onto his bed, sighing deeply.

The scout was hardly able to believe how things had changed so much in such a short period of time. All of a sudden he felt like he was aboard a runaway train, the same train that Aaron had talked about, a train that looked like it was about to derail hopelessly, and none of them could do anything to prevent it. They were all aboard that unpredictable roller coaster together. A journey that had begun in the same moment he had seen Rick and Daryl take his truck, and had gone out of control with the appearance of the saviors, and the emotional breakdown of a group of people that had no other option left than to knock at Hilltop's high doors, begging for help.

Paul remembered the moment Daryl had awakened some rooms beyond his, and how much he had wished he could shut his mouth with duck tape. However, he had given in to his rude retorts because he was aware of what he and his people had suffered—and because of that, he had been able to discover the person who was hiding under that facade of hostility; a smokescreen that was just his way to ward off anything that he feared could harm him. An armor that didn't let others to see the good and generous person who was crouching inside.

Paul sighed, deeply aware that they had chosen the worst time to let flow the feelings that were beyond their control now. But he also knew that no one better than them understood that things could change with each breath they took. Each blink could be the last in this world in which they had to live in—and if that was not enough, they also had decided to take a path whose destiny was an inevitable war.

Paul was afraid, more afraid than he would like to admit, but he also knew he had no other choice but to accept the situation—among other things, because he knew he was not going to make the same mistake he had made with Ben. No more pretending to be waiting for the right moment to face a conflict that he was actually avoiding, and now, two years later, having to regret, with each passing second, not having had the courage to come clean, and be happy with the time they had together, before this fucking world took him away forever.

That war was going to be a turning point, Paul knew it, but this time he was going to face the situation—he knew he was going to squeeze each moment he could spend with Daryl, no matter what might happen between them. Sex was sex, the archer had said, and it was true, and though he was not going to deny that there was nothing else he wanted more than to give himself again to someone in body and soul, he also knew that, in that moment, just feel the archer's presence beside him, knowing he was okay, and see him smile; was more than enough.

The scout closed his eyes, hoping that for once his brain could relax, and let him sleep if only for a couple of hours. Daryl was right, he needed to rest, however, and though he tried, he knew it was going to be impossible.


	24. Chapter 24

Four days had passed since the saviors' attack. Four days in which they had worked tirelessly to rebuild the walls, and restore Hilltop to the idyllic community it had always resembled. Four days in which each and every one of them had been working to the point of exhaustion.

Daryl wiped the sweat that ran down his forehead like a stream of water. He was worn-out, but grateful to look up and see that the effort was starting to pay off. They were closer to seeing the walls as solid and impenetrable as weeks ago.

"Here, big kid."

He hadn't even heard her approach him, but there was Tammy, with her red hair tucked in a discreet bow, offering him a glass of water. Daryl took it gratefully and drank it down, though it was not enough to slake the exhaustion that clung to his muscles.

"Thanks," he said hoarsely, and returned the glass to the flame-haired woman, who filled it again and offered it to the person standing next to him.

Autumn had already started to paint everything in its warm and toasty tones, and although the nights had become much cooler, daytime temperatures were still too high for the time of year. This made the intense work they were doing even more strenuous. For that reason, they had established different shifts that allowed them to advance at an easy pace, without the fatigue having an effect on them.

The archer looked around while taking a short breather, and almost instinctively his eyes were drawn to Paul. The scout was near Barrington House, talking to Maggie. He had finished his shift some time ago, but instead of resting, he kept busy, checking that everything was in order. Making sure the meal was going to be ready in time, making sure that those who had suffered minor accidents were fine, or verifying that the community's everyday duties were being carried out normally.

With Gregory's absence, Paul and Maggie had taken control of the colony in a natural way, and of course no one had complained about it. They were making the whole chaotic situation they were experiencing seem almost routine and insignificant. However, there were some harsh moments, moments when someone suddenly remembered why they were like this, remembered that bloody and unjust attack, and the atmosphere darkened immediately like a thick black cloud came over their heads. Still, they kept working tirelessly because, as Amelia had said to Paul, there was no time for lamentations. Now, more than ever, they had to be together, and work and fight to prevent something like that from happening again.

All this intense work meant that, during the day, Daryl and Paul barely had a second to see each other. Instead, the archer had taken up the habit of seeing the scout in his room, before finally going back to his trailer, to wait for the sun to re-appear behind the hills, and the activity to start up again with the dawn.

The archer still felt nervous with that whole situation; he felt lost, despite Paul's efforts to make him feel comfortable. When they were together, they talked about everything that crossed their minds, as they had done on so many occasions. Conversations ranged from the most banal anecdotes to their time-blurred childhood memories. They also spent time working on the plan for the saviors' settlement. When there was nothing else to fill the exhausted silence, then came the kisses that were meant to say goodnight, but intensified with every touch and caress.

Daryl was starting to get used to these little moments, to feel the soft touch of Paul's lips on his own, to feel his beard brush against his skin, to the sound of the muffled moans that quietly asked for more, much more than kisses that felt innocent, and insufficient, even for him.

His body woke up just feeling the scout's presence near him, and it lit up as it had never done before when their bodies pressed against each other in a hungry, and sometimes uncontrollable, embrace. And yet neither of them went further.

Daryl knew that Paul didn't because he was deliberately letting him take the initiative. He knew that the scout was challenging him and tempting him, because he wanted know how far he was willing to go, and the archer wanted to take that step forward, he wanted to go further— _fuck_ , he wanted it so bad. But then he remembered that Paul had been with other men, and suddenly he was afraid to disappoint him, to not have enough experience, to not live up to it, to not being able to satisfy him as others had done—as Ben had done, or even Alex had done. It was in that moment when Daryl always put an end to that intense embrace, said goodbye, and left the room with his body about to erupt like a volcano, his mind constrained by a frustration he was not sure how to handle.

"Daryl!"

The archer jerked, startled, realizing that he had been completely absorbed in looking at Paul and Maggie. So distracted by his own thoughts that he hadn't even realized that the two of them had ended the conversation, and had disappeared from there.

When Daryl turned around he met Tara's questioning look.

"What's up?" He asked like the woman hadn't been trying to catch his attention for some time.

"It's time to eat, idiot." Tara knocked his forehead with her hand, like she was trying to bring him back to the real world, and then gave him a wide grin, "Fuck, you've absolutely fallen for him."

"Shut up!" Daryl snapped, looking around, making sure no one around them was listening.

Tara laughed, and the two of them walked to the area where they had set the tables to eat together. They sat at one of the further corners, separated from the rest of the group. On the plates, the rice steamed and their stomachs reacted quickly to the smell of freshly cooked food.

"Calm down, man, you look like a bulldog," Tara teased as she watched the archer sink his head into the plate.

" _'mhungry_ ," he replied, his mouth full.

"You're going to have to control those manners now that—well, you know…"

"What?"

"Nothing, forget it."

"He doesn't give a shit."

"I'm glad to hear that… how's everything?"

"Fine."

"You sure?"

"Yeah…"

"You sure?"

Daryl sighed reluctantly, "why you ask?"

"Because it looks like there's something bothering you."

"Why you think that?"

"Because you go around all day with _this_ expression," Tara frowned, trying to imitate the archer, "it's obvious something's worrying you."

"I'm fine."

But Daryl immediately looked for Paul, and almost dropped his fork on the plate when he saw him talking with Alex. It was a short conversation, so short it didn't even look like a conversation, and then Alex went around the tables to sit in a place that someone had saved for him.

For some reason the archer couldn't take his eyes off the nurse and all of a sudden, he imagined him caressing Paul's face, just as he did. Daryl growled and rubbed his eyes trying to block the image of those intimate moments he knew the two had shared, moments that went far beyond simple kisses.

"Jealous?" Tara asked suddenly.

"Eh?"

"If you're jealous or something?"

"No… no, it's jus' that—it doesn't matter; finish your food."

"We've just started!"

Tara raised an eyebrow, then moved from where she was—seated in front of him—and settled on the bench just beside him.

"What's up?"

"Not the place to talk 'bout that," Daryl answered, lowering his voice.

"They're not listening."

"Yeah, they probably seein' us sittin' here like two rejects, wonderin' what our problem is."

"Since when do you care about connecting with other people? Besides, we are the outsiders here, I'm sure they don't give a shit. Tell me, what's wrong."

"I—I don't—fucking hell, Tara! Do we really have to talk 'bout this now?"

"We could talk at night, but you're never in the trailer…" she blinked innocently, "and by the time you get back I'm already asleep."

Daryl sighed as he pushed his food around the plate, distractedly.

"It's jus'… I—I don't have the experience _he_ has," he said, nodding toward Alex.

"And?"

" _And_? You serious?"

"Oh… I see, I get it now—you think that if you don't give him what _he_ did, he will go back with _him_."

Daryl frowned, "never crossed my mind he might get back with _him_ —thanks, you've helped a lot" the archer replied, putting his fork on the table, reluctantly—he was no longer hungry.

"Hey… stop thinking that bullshit, Jesus knows you, knows who you are, and still wants to be with you, stop pushing yourself, man. I think that what you both have is very pure and beautiful, and if you don't know what to do, you can always ask him to show you—not only am I completely convinced he won't care, he's probably willing to do so."

Daryl couldn't help the intense blush that stained his cheeks, and he cursed himself as Tara chuckled.

"Stop laughing," he protested.

But the woman took her hands to her mouth to avoid an even greater laugh.

"They're gonna think we're idiots."

"I don't care what they think, and neither should you—and now, seriously, stop thinking about all that shit, Daryl, and enjoy what you both have while you can."

Tara turned her gaze then, looking over his shoulder, then winked at him and rose back to her seat with a huge smile on her mouth.

"Hello!" she said with enthusiasm.

Daryl turned and saw Paul approach them with his plate of food. The scout sat down next to the archer not even thinking twice.

"Bon appétit," he said after settling down, "how's the rice today?"

"Very good—actually, Daryl and I were saying that you probably enjoyed finer dining in the past, but in the end it's the simple things that really make you feel good, right?"

This was a strange analogy of the whole situation, but even Daryl understood what Tara meant to say and the archer stared back at his plate, like that as enough to divert the attention from the shame he was feeling. Fortunately, Paul didn't seem to understand what that was all about, and he simply shrugged "yeah, I guess", so they continued to eat quietly.

"I'm worried about the trainin'," the archer said after a while, and after Tara had gone, leaving them relatively alone.

"What's bothering you?"

"I don't know, maybe that we haven't been able to train for almost a week? That we're exhaustin' ourselves rebuildin' those walls? that we've lost some boys in the fuckin' attack? Isn't that enough?

"Yeah, it is—but frankly, I don't think we need to train any more."

"No?"

"No."

"You sound pretty convinced."

"I am," he answered, firmly, as he took the last bite of rice into his mouth.

Daryl shook his head.

"Look, I know how this might sound given the circumstances, but none of those guys could have helped us in this war even if they were still alive."

Daryl shook his head again, unconvinced by Paul's response, but he didn't have time to respond to him—the sudden sound of a bell put them all on alert.

The archer, the scout, and Maggie, got up immediately, and went running toward where Kal stood, just where the doors had once been.

After the attack, Maggie and Paul decided that they needed a new way of alerting the community of the arrival of intruders at Hilltop, so they had agreed to place a bell on the top of the watch point. Two rings meant that someone was approaching, if after a few minutes the bell rang just once, it meant the visitors were friends; on the contrary, if the bell rang more than once, it meant that everybody had to shelter immediately. No one could breach that rule, and only those whom they had appointed guards, would remain outside, strategically placed and ready to attack and defend themselves if necessary.

Paul went up to the watch point, next to Kal, and watched the strangers with the binoculars. Behind them, Hilltop went silent, impatiently awaiting the next ring. Maggie and Daryl waited down the stairs as they watched the scout scrutinize the horizon.

After a few minutes—that seemed like hours—the scout lowered the binoculars and said something to Kal that Daryl couldn't hear, then the guard picked up the clapper arm and tapped the rock against the rim of the bell, just once. The murmur of relief was audible even from there, and suddenly the colony seemed to come back to life.

"Move one of the trucks," Paul ordered, then went downstairs to join them again. "They're from Alexandria."

Daryl's heart started to throb with anguish. The archer was aware that it made no sense for them to come to Hilltop unless they had news to share, and suddenly the images of the horror they had lived there only a few days ago came back to his head—he fought to erase from his mind the idea that his people might have suffered an attack similar to the one they had to face.

His thoughts vanished as soon as the car entered the community. It was just one car and Rick, Michonne and Aaron got out immediately. Daryl studied their expressions, but nothing seemed to indicate that they were bringing bad news, all he could see on their faces was compassion, which intensified as soon as their eyes met.

"Maggie?" Michonne said, in a breath of relief.

The two women took a step forward and merged into a deep, moving embrace. Tears flooded their eyes almost instantly.

"I'm so glad to see you're okay," Michonne whispered, sobbing, "there's not a single day that I don't regret not staying here with you."

"Don't say that, you did what you had to do. I'm fine, they took care of me."

When they separated, Michonne examined Maggie up and down, and a huge smile appeared on her face, "look at this…" she said putting her hands on the woman's slightly bulging belly.

"He's growing fast."

"It's a boy?"

"Yes, it's a boy."

"A little Glenn," Rick said, approaching her, wrapping her in another warm embrace, "I'm so glad to see you."

"Me too."

Then Rick and Aaron approached Daryl and Paul, and the four greeted each other like it had been years since they had last seen each other.

"Rosita told us what happened," Rick said, "we've come to help."

"We appreciate it," Paul replied, "but it wasn't necessary."

"Of course it's necessary—we're in this together," Rick said.

"You shouldn'a left Alexandria, ain't safe," Daryl said.

"Alexandria's fine, we have everything under control, don't worry."

"Well, you must be tired from the trip," the scout said, "and you're probably hungry; let's get you something to eat, then we'll sit down. There're things we need to talk about."

* * *

"Where the hell is this place?" Rick asked after looking at the plan Paul and Daryl had been working on.

After the meal, the group had gathered in Gregory's old office. There, sitting around the desk, Paul had shown them the drawings and the list he and the archer had drawn up.

"In a valley, surrounded by a big forest, well hidden if you don't know what you're looking for," Paul answered, "it's not an easily accessible area, if you don't use the main road, of course."

"We can't attack them there," Daryl added, "it would be suicide."

Rick lifted his head from the sheet of paper and laid his eyes on the archer.

"Daryl's right," Paul said, "they know the area better than us; reaching the factory is almost impossible without being seen, and they could have enough time to organize and attack us. We have to lure them out."

"How?" Michonne asked.

"I don't know…" the scout answered, truthfully.

"We're going to need more time," Maggie said.

"There's no more time," Rick said, "we must follow the plan as we've agreed, we can't give them any more time to commit another attack like the one you suffered here. We'll think of something. Does Ezekiel know this? "

"No."

"How many people do you have?"

Daryl and Paul looked at each other for a second, "we've suffered some casualties…" Daryl replied.

"We don't have a lot of people," the scout added, "but the people we do have are very capable."

"Okay, it's okay, we'll plan everything when we meet again," Rick said, "meanwhile, it looks like there's a lot of work to do here."

* * *

The afternoon passed normally, though with the cold's imminent arrival, the days were also getting shorter, and the reconstruction's work had to be suspended with the early fall of the sun. The community went practically deserted even before the sky was dyed black, ready for a well-deserved rest until dawn forced them to rise again.

In _The Exiles of Barrington House's_ trailer, Daryl and Tara were talking to Aaron.

"We don't have much to offer," Tara said, "in the cupboards there are only plates and glasses and pans we hardly use. But I can go get some rice if you want to have something to eat."

"Don't worry, I'm fine." Aaron sat down on one of the kitchen chairs.

While Tara poured herself a glass of water, Daryl leaned on the counter, looking at his friend, who still kept that sad look—though, he didn't look as lost and hesitant as the last time he had seen him.

"Everythin's good over there?" the archer asked.

"Yes, everything's good, well, as good as it can be while we get ready for a war, but the people in Alexandria have responded well, I'm quite surprised by their determination."

"I'm glad…"

"Yeah…"

"What 'bout you?"

Aaron ducked his head and his gaze became sad, "still miss him, but what can I do, I can't help it."

"I'd be surprised if you could," Tara said softly.

Suddenly there was silence in the trailer, a quiet silence that Daryl would have liked to appease by saying something that might make his friends feel better, but he knew that words were not enough, and nothing could come out of his mouth that would make them feel better.

"Anyway, how are you?" Aaron asked, "Rosita said that the saviors were about to hunt you down and that you were shot again."

The archer moved his arm unconsciously, though the bandage was hidden by the shirt he was wearing, "yeah, they found us, we had to fight, kill them…"

"That's never easy…"

"Yeah… but there was no choice, and yeah, I was shot, but ain't important, jus' a cut—the bullet jus' grazed me."

"Why don't you tell him the whole story?" Tara asked, then.

Daryl glared at the woman, "he knows the whole story, we found the settlement, they discovered us, we ended them—there ain't no more to say."

"Yeah, there's more to say."

"What are you talking about?"

"Tell him what happened after…"

Daryl snorted to himself, shaking his head from side to side, "there ain't nothin' else to tell."

"C'mon! He's your friend, surely he can advise you better than I."

"Can you tell me what you're talking about?" Aaron insisted.

"Nothin', ignore her."

"Jesus and Daryl kissed."

"What?!"

"Tara!"

"See, it wasn't that hard," the woman said, putting the glass of water in the sink.

"You kissed?! Really?!"

"You couldn't shut your big mouth, huh?"

"Hey, he's your friend. You know that I'm here for you, but there are issues I can't help with—you know I've never been with a man, but Aaron has." Tara gave him a forced smile, "I'm leaving, I'm going on watch."

"Watch?" the archer asked, frowning.

"Yeah, I told Eduardo that I could lend him a hand—you can have the trailer all to yourself, so you can rest quietly, or do whatever else you might want to do…" Tara winked at him and then walked out the door, leaving the two men alone.

Daryl turned back to Aaron when he heard him laugh.

"She's not exactly the queen of subtlety, eh?"

"No… she ain't," Daryl said, sighing gravely.

For a moment neither of them said anything, Daryl was still standing by the small kitchen, while Aaron sat at the table, watching him. The archer could feel his eyes on him even though he was trying hard to avoid his gaze.

 _Cat_ suddenly appeared out of nowhere, and jumped up to the table.

"Oh, wow! who's this?" Aaron asked.

" _Cat_ , found him out there, fed him, and now he follows me everywhere."

Aaron stroked _Cat_ and then looked at the archer, "C'mon, take a sit, let's talk."

Daryl thought for a moment, but he finally moved and sat down next to his friend.

"So you and Jesus… wow… the truth's that I don't know if it surprises me or not—I mean, it was obvious that there was something there, but… I don't know, are you two together or something, or…?"

"I don't know—I mean, I—I don't know, Aaron, I don't know. We see each other, we kiss…that's all for now."

"Have you ever been with a man before?"

For some reason that question caused Daryl to jump slightly on the chair, "no," he replied, unable to avoid the flush that lit his cheeks, "I've been with women… but never with a man."

Aaron made a sound with his mouth, "I've never been with a woman."

"I don't know what to do… I feel confused with everythin'. I want things I've never wanted before, but I can't let myself get carried away."

"There's no instruction manual for these kind of things, Daryl. I don't know, if he wants to be with you, just do what your body asks you to do—also, he knows what he's doing, let him show you how things are done. But seriously, Daryl, you won't enjoy this until you relax and set aside all those questions and doubts."

"I can't help it…"

"I know… look, I don't know if this will help you, but it took me a long time to sleep with someone for the first time, partly because it took me some time to find out who I was, and by the time I did, I didn't let any relationship to go beyond mere kissing—as you're doing now—I was ashamed to confess that I'd never been with someone before, that I didn't have experience—it was like a snow ball that gets bigger as the time passes. But suddenly, one day, and in the most unexpected way, I met a person who changed my life, and then I stopped asking absurd questions, and I let myself go. Then I discovered that things, in the end, aren't as complicated as we make them."

Daryl stared at _Cat_ , "was it Eric?"

"Yeah, it was Eric," Aaron said, drawing a sad smile. "Hey, I'm not suggesting you go crazy, and do things you might not be prepared for. I don't know Jesus as much as the rest of you, but I'm sure he understands what you're going through—but seriously, don't let all those silly doubts control the situation. Being with someone intimately is one of those rare moments when we can actually let ourselves go, stop thinking, and just act. Enjoy it"

Daryl was about to answer, but light knocks on the door interrupted the conversation.

"Who's there?" the archer asked.

The door opened and Paul stepped inside the trailer, and suddenly Daryl felt his breath cut in his throat—he cursed himself for reacting like he was a fucking teenager, but the damned cat-charming hippie pothead, appeared before them like a fucking angel. He had showered and the wet hair fell on his shoulders. He wore a simple pair of gray sweatpants, and a blue wool sweater, that was too big for him, but that he wore casually, like it had been a deliberate choice.

"Tara told me you were here," he said to Aaron, "Maggie was looking for you, to show you to your room."

"Ah! Okay…" Aaron said, rising from the table and walking to the door, "think about what I told you, Daryl. See you tomorrow."

Daryl nodded.

"Do you want me to go with you?" Paul asked.

"No, no—no need, you—I uhm—I already know the way, don't worry."

When the door closed, Paul laid his crystal eyes on the archer and started to laugh.

"It looks like we're back in high school," he said, walking over to sit at the table next to him.

"Yeah, and it's fuckin' annoyin'…" Daryl said in a low voice, as he watched Paul caress _Cat_ , who responded enthusiastically to the touch.

"Anyway… I guess we have no choice but to accept that we're gonna be the subject of conversation for awhile."

Daryl muttered something and fixed his eyes again on the animal, who was entangling Paul's hand in its playful little paws.

"What's the problem, Daryl?" Paul asked after a moment of silence.

The archer looked up, "why you askin'?"

The scout didn't respond, just stared at him, expectant.

"Tara tell you somethin'?"

Paul let out a small laugh, "no, Tara hasn't told me anything, but I'm glad to know you talk to her before you talk to me."

"She cornered me at lunchtime—had no choice."

Paul was silent again, like he was still waiting for Daryl to answer his first question. The archer sighed slightly, "nothin's wrong…"

"That's not true."

"It is."

"It's not, Daryl."

"How do you know?"

"You're very easy to read."

"Oh, really? Why don't you read me then?" He protested, even if he didn't understand why it bothered him that Paul asked him that question.

"Do you want me to?"

"Go on…"

"Okay," the scout said, leaning his back on the chair, "it's obvious that you're overwhelmed by all this, and I don't blame you. I understand that it's all new to you, but you concern me, Daryl—I don't know what to do to make you feel comfortable. When we're together, everything seems just fine, and then suddenly you tuck tail and run, and I can't help but ask myself what I'm doing wrong? I can't seem to cast those doubts and worries out of your mind.

The archer's grave expression changed into one of uneasiness, "you ain't doin' anything wrong," he said quickly, "it's jus' that—I'm aware that you're lettin' me take the initiative, and you know this shit's new to me—I don't know what to do, and I'm afraid of not being able to give you what others have, and that you'll end up gettin' bored or tired of—"

Paul raised a hand to keep the archer from talking, "Wait… are you serious?"

Daryl ducked his head, suddenly feeling completely ashamed. Paul leaned forward and took his hand, "I want to be with you, Daryl, it's as simple as that. Everything else, doesn't matter to me. If you asked me right now to sit down and make macramé, I'd be more than happy to sit down with you and make macramé. All I want is to be with you as long as we can."

Daryl said nothing for a moment, "what's macramé?"

Paul chuckled, "you're the most adorable person I've ever met, Daryl Dixon."

"You mean I'm an idiot…"

"You're not an idiot, you just didn't have an easy life, I'm aware of that, but I'd like you to understand once and for all that I don't care what happens between us, I'm here for you."

The archer felt his heart bouncing wildly within his ribs. He had never felt this way before; he had never felt anything like what he was feeling at that moment; what he felt when he was with Paul. No one had ever cared for him in that way. He thought about Carol and Rick, and the others, but he knew this was completely different.

"I want to be with you, too," Daryl replied softly, "I want to be with you in every possible way, but… I feel lost."

"That's because you're too worried and busy thinking about what you should and shouldn't do—just let yourself go, Daryl."

The archer grunted, "like that's easy…"

"It's easier than you think… let me show you."

The archer stared into the scout's blue eyes, and he could see his concern reflected in them. Daryl felt guilty for making him feel this way, for making him believe that this lack of confidence was his fault. Paul and Aaron were right, he had to stop dwelling on all the bullshit that went through his head, but he knew that, deep down, those thoughts were just a consequence of his inability to understand how it was possible that someone like Paul wanted to be with a weirdo like him. But there he was, sitting right in front of him, stroking his hand, and asking for his trust.

"Okay…" the archer replied.

Yes, he was willing to do it; he was willing to let himself go, to let Paul show him what it was like to be with someone who really cares about you. What it was like to share those intimate caresses, those kisses… He liked kissing Paul— _fuck_ , he loved the feeling of those soft, full lips on his own.

Daryl blinked, distracted by his own thoughts and saw the scout was smiling. Then Paul got up from the table, gave him a warm kiss on the forehead, and headed to the front door.

"Tara's on watch, right?" he asked.

"Yeah…"

"Great," he said, locking the door, then turning to look at him, "Which room is yours?"

Daryl took a deep breath, his heart going completely crazy on his chest, but he rose from his chair and approached Paul.

"This one," he said, pointing to the room in front of the front door.

"Small room, for the big kid."

"S'what happens when you live with women."

Paul smiled, and after the scout used the washroom, the two of them entered the narrow room. It was so small that there was only room for a twin-sized bed and bedside table with a lamp. At the head of the bed was a window, which was the only thing that relieved the claustrophobic feeling of the room.

Daryl sat on the bed, still not quite sure what to expect, but didn't take his eyes off the scout, who walked up, squatting in front of him, between his knees, laying both hands on his thighs. That touch alone was enough to send a chill up and down his spine, making him tense.

"I'm just going to ask you to do something for me," Paul said. "Relax, okay?"

"Okay…" he said, hesitation in his voice.

"Okay, let me try something. Turn around and lie down."

Daryl cocked an eyebrow at first, but Paul got up to give him room, and the archer moved to lie face down on the bed. He barely had time to think about what they were doing, because a second later Paul sat straddling him.

"You're good?" he asked.

"Man, you weigh a lot for someone so puny," the archer joked.

Paul laughed, and Daryl opened his mouth to say something else, but then Paul's hands tightened on the muscles of his shoulders. The scout started to move them, massaging him over his clothes. The archer closed his eyes, not suppressing the deep groan in his throat.

A few minutes passed, with the two of them in silence, while Paul worked with his hands along his back, erasing all the tension in his body and also in his mind.

"Do you feel better?" the scout asked after a while.

Daryl grunted, eyes still closed, in what he intended to be an affirmative answer.

"This would be much easier without all these clothes."

"Already thinkin' on gettin' me naked, Monroe?"

Daryl felt Paul's body trembling as he laughed, but the scout didn't answer, just placed his fingers around the sleeves of his vest and pulled it, sliding it down the archer's arms, until he got rid of it. Then he rested his hands on his shoulders, massaging them again.

"Better?"

"Yeah…"

The archer noticed that his brain was starting to disconnect from his own body, he didn't even think he could articulate coherent words in that moment. He could only concentrate on the hands working his muscles, which seemed to have accumulated more tension than he had imagined.

Daryl's eyes flew open just as Paul lifted his shirt lightly and brushed his fingers down his lower back. His heart beating harder than he thought he could handle, as the scout stroked his skin gently. Then Paul leaned forward, pressing his chest against his back; his warm lips resting on his temple, then on his hair, and then on his cheek, that burned like it had been touched by open flame. Then Paul leaned back again, placing his hands on Daryl's shoulders, over his shirt, and suddenly the archer felt the urgent need to feel those fingers on his skin again. Without even thinking what he was doing, he sat up, kneeling on the bed—the scout's body glued to his back, as he noticed the throbbing pressure growing inside his pants.

Daryl started unbuttoning his shirt clumsily; his trembling fingers seemed to be unable to respond to his brain's demands. Paul wrapped his arms around him, helping him get rid of some of those buttons, then he slid the shirt over Daryl's torso and arms, until the archer was able to pull it over his head. Paul picked it up and threw it aside, or perhaps he threw it to the floor, Daryl was not sure, and he didn't care because all of a sudden he felt exposed; exposed to that cloudy past that marked every inch of his skin.

The scout gently stroked the scars, moving his fingertips over the irregular lines.

"They're disgustin'…" the archer said in a low voice.

Paul said nothing, just placed the palms of his hands on his back, urging him to lie down again, and the archer obeyed.

"They're just scars now, Daryl—they're part of you, of who you are," Paul said then, "and I like you this way."

"Remind me to bring you some glasses next time I go out."

"Don't underestimate yourself," he said softly as he continued the massage. "Do you feel better now?"

"Mhmm…"

Though he couldn't see it, he knew Paul was smiling. Daryl let the scout continue to work on his back for another long time, until he, again, put his weight on top of him; his breath on his cheek.

"Turn around…" he said in a whisper.

The archer hesitated a few seconds but then turned around, brushing his body against Paul, who didn't move an inch from where he was. Now Daryl could look up into his face, and see those crystalline eyes glowing in a special way.

"This is not fair…" Daryl commented.

"What."

"I'm half naked, when you're fully dressed."

The scout laughed, "it's you who's all tense, we're working on that."

"I'm fine now…"

"I can tell…"

Daryl blushed as he had never done before, but said nothing—Paul leaned even closer, their bodies pressed against each other. He had the feeling that the scout was about to kiss him, but instead he laid his lips on the corner of his mouth, then he did the same on his cheek, and also near his eye, and on his forehead… it was like the scout wanted to explore every inch of his face with his lips. Slow kisses, with which he knew that the damned cat-charming hippie pothead was just trying to push the limits of his patience. And it was working. Daryl wanted more, much more. He placed his hands on either side of the scout's face, and pulled him until their lips finally met in a fierce and hungry kiss. Paul ran his tongue across Daryl's lips and they opened without hesitation. The archer buried his hands in Paul's hair, deepening the contact, as Paul stroked his torso, sliding his hand down his chest and his belly, until his fingers met the rigid fabric of his trousers.

The scout pulled away from the archer for a moment, trying to catch his breath, but not taking his eyes off him. Then he leaned forward again, but instead of catching Daryl's lips, Paul started to draw a line of kisses over his neck, chest and belly—the archer closed his eyes, letting himself be carried away by the soft touch of his lips, while his hair, which fell like a waterfall, tickled his skin with every movement he made.

Daryl had never imagined that simple kisses and caresses could make him feel the way he felt in that moment. He had enjoyed sex for what it was, but this was so different…

All those thoughts fade away as soon as Paul's hand settled on his crotch. The archer arched his hips almost instinctively against the scout's hand. His eyes flew open with a deep moan that was drowned when Paul caught his mouth again.

The sound of their kisses was the only thing that could be heard in the room—soft little noises coming from his throat, or from Paul's, or from both, he wasn't sure, all he knew was that they were lying in that tiny bed, kissing like two teenagers, and his body trembled as Paul moved his hand along his erection, palpable through the fabric of his pants.

Daryl thought he would explode any moment, and like he'd read his mind, the scout stopped what he was doing and sat up, his hands now working on the buckle of his belt, not taking his eyes off of him, like he was waiting for the archer's refusal, any sign to warn him that he was going too far, but Daryl couldn't say no, in fact he longed to get rid of the damn clothes that currently felt like they were strangling him.

The archer lifted his hips slightly to help Paul slip his pants over his thighs, and he couldn't help the grunt of satisfaction as he felt himself freed.

He didn't have time to think about the fact that he was completely naked while Paul was still dressed from head to toe, because the scout dropped all the weight of his body back on him, claiming his lips in a hungry kiss. Daryl wrapped his arms around him—he wanted to feel him close in every possible way, and he did, _yes_ , he could feel Paul's excitement pressing against his body.

Then the scout broke the kiss, pulling himself to one side, placing his body against his side, and burying his face in the hollow of his neck, while his hand moved decisively down his chest, his belly…

"Oh, fuck…" Daryl exclaimed, as soon as Paul wrapped his hand around him.

"You're good?" the scout whispered as he began to move his hand along his length.

Daryl could only mutter disjointed sentences as Paul's warm hand slid up and down, twisting as it traveled the length from base to tip, while his lips licked and sucked the sensitive skin of his neck.

The archer knew he couldn't last much longer—he felt himself shake, as a warm rush of heat ran through his body. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it was going to explode; explode in the same way he was about to do at any moment now.

Daryl wrapped his arms around Paul, holding him tight. The heat from his body was almost suffocating, but he couldn't help it, he wanted to feel him close, while the scout sucked his neck, and his fingers kept moving firmly along the length of his dick.

"Oh shit…"

"C'mon, Daryl," the scout whispered against his neck. His breath sending a wave of warmth rippling across his skin.

And that was all; the archer came with a strangled cry, the hot liquid smearing all over his stomach, as a wave of pleasure rippled through him. And for a moment his mind went completely blank. Suddenly nothing around him mattered at all—not the walkers, nor Negan, nor the saviors, nor the fucking war. The only thing that really mattered to him was the man lying next to him, his legs intertwined with his own; his hand, now on his chest, caressing him with tenderness. And those eyes, those incredible eyes looking at him like no one had ever done before.

The archer swelled his chest, trying to fill his lungs with as much air as possible, but not looking away from Paul, who was smiling at him. Daryl could still feel his erection pressed against him, and he felt guilty, even though he knew the scout was not thinking about it, it was like the only important thing at that moment, was him.

Daryl put a hand on his cheek, he wanted to say something, he wanted to express everything he was feeling, but the words didn't come to his lips, and yet he knew Paul didn't care—he was just like that, always giving everything to everybody and receiving nothing in return.

"Do you feel more relaxed now?" the scout asked, with that confident smile of his planted in the face.

Daryl let out a sigh accompanied by a smile, "I think so…"

Paul's lips curved even further, then he leaned forward, kissing him on his forehead.

"I think you'll have to clean yourself up before getting into bed…"

The scout then planted a quick kiss on his lips, and rose from the bed, walking toward the door.

"Wait…" Daryl said quickly, trying to sit up, but feeling as his body was not responding, "where are you goin'?"

"See you tomorrow!" Paul answered, getting out of the room and leaving the trailer.

"What…?" but the door closed.

Daryl dropped himself back onto the bed, hands to his face. He couldn't believe what had just happened, but he laughed as he pictured himself in that small room, lying in that tiny bed, completely naked. _God_. He blushed intensely just remembering the soft touch of Paul's hand around him, and he was not ashamed, far from it, he wanted it to happen again—he wanted to feel his body close to his, his breath, his lips… but he also wanted to see him and make him enjoy himself as he had just done.

Just thinking about it, Daryl could feel himself getting hard again.

"Fuck…"

The archer sat on the bed, rubbing his face; suddenly feeling tremendously tired. He needed a shower, _yes_ ; he needed a real cold shower.


	25. Chapter 25

"You a vampire, or what?!"

Paul turned when he heard the creak of his bedroom's door but he barely had a second to react because Daryl entered the room like a whirlwind. The archer stopped in the middle of the room, pointing to the red mark on his neck, though his apparent anger didn't stop the scout from laughing.

"And he laughs…"

"I'm sorry, I let myself get carried away in the moment."

"Ya know the shit I'm gonna have to put up with for this?"

"You can always say that you ran into a door or something," Paul said, laughing.

Daryl snorted, stepping forward ready to approach the desk where Paul sat at that moment but his eyes fell on the impeccably made bed. The scout sighed, bowing his head, aware of what was to come next.

"Either you're a neat freak—somethin' that wouldn't surprise me livin' in this house, or you haven't slept at all… hope it's the first thing."

Paul dropped his shoulders as the only answer.

"Fuckin' hell, Paul…"

"I know, Daryl, damn it! Do you think I wouldn't sleep if I could? But I can't, my brain doesn't stop working and I can't rest. I close my eyes but I can't stop thinking about the war, about Hilltop, Alexandria, The Kingdom—and how we're going to organize, how we're going to act, how—"

"Okay, okay, stop," the archer interrupted, approaching and sitting in front of him. "Paul, shit, you have to understand that this ain't jus' your thing, we're in this together—so stop puttin' all that damn pressure on yourself."

"I wish I could…"

"Of course you can, let us help you—let me help you."

Paul looked at the archer, "unless you let another truck hit me in the head, I don't think you can do much about it."

"I could get you some Whiskey, too."

They both laughed.

"I think you enjoyed hearing me whine more than you should've."

"Ain't gonna lie…"

Paul thought for a few seconds, then took some air, "I can't promise anything but I'll try, okay?—now, let's forget about me… what about you, did you sleep well?" He asked not bothering to hide the wide, satisfied smile that appeared on his lips.

Daryl looked down, blushing profusely, though he laughed, shaking his head from side to side.

"Cocky asshole…"

Paul laughed loudly, shrugging his shoulders, "what can I do, I'm good at it—the massage thing, I mean."

"Sure—well, jus' so you know, it wasn't bad, but I could've slept better."

The scout made a sound with his mouth and cocked an eyebrow, "How dare you lie to my face?"

"Jus' sayin' for your own good—maybe you need to practice a bit more."

"You wish…"

The two men laughed but Daryl's expression turned serious immediately. The archer lowered his head, fixing his eyes on his hands, fingers intertwined nervously, while his cheeks turned a deep red.

"Seriously, I—I—yesterday—uhm…"

Paul smiled, moving his chair a few inches closer to him, and then took his restless hands in his.

"It's okay, you don't have to say anything but, and _just so you know_ , I also enjoyed it."

Daryl couldn't help but blush even more. Paul cupped his face with his hands and leaned forward to give him a kiss but the bell's high-pitched toll bounced off the walls of the room like a long roll of thunder, before their lips could even brush.

"Can't we jus' have a normal day for once?" the archer grunted.

Paul stood up in alarm, Daryl followed him and the two ran out of the room hurrying toward the house's main terrace. From there they could see the colony already paralyzed, awaiting with concern the next warning of the bell. Behind the walls and the big trucks, they saw the cloud of dust left by the car that approached Hilltop disturbing their longing for tranquility.

Kal was speaking to whoever was their visitor, and when the brief conversation ended, the guard hit the bell again, just once.

Paul breathed a sigh of relief even if he couldn't shake off all the tension. Both, he and Daryl returned to the house and then went outside approaching the gates. Maggie was already at the foot of the stairs leading to the watch point, while Rick, Michonne, Tara and Aaron waited not far from there.

When they arrived, Kal was coming down.

"I just hit the bell once," he said visibly irritated, "but I could've been mistaken—it's Gregory."

* * *

"Why are they here?" Gregory asked, pointing out the audience he clearly considered excessive, and not very welcome.

After letting him back into the community he had vilely abandoned and in a car that wasn't the same one he he'd taken in the first place, they went to the house and locked themselves in his old office. Paul was not the only one accompanying him; there were also Maggie, Daryl, Rick and Michonne, whose presence doubtlessly irritated the gray-haired man.

"They're our guests," the scout replied.

"The last time you brought them in as guests, they emptied our pantry and since then we've had nothing but trouble. And anyway, that doesn't explain why are they here, in this office, when this matter should only concern the members of this community which, if I'm not mistaken, would only include yourself and me."

"What's going on with the saviors affects us all, Gregory. They've come to help this community to rise again, while you turned your back on us."

"You have no idea what you're talking about," the man snapped, "but it doesn't surprise me, you're so obsessed with them that you can't seem to see what's happening right under your nose, let alone accept that this situation is, to a great extent, your fault, too."

Paul took a deep breath and closed his eyes. It wasn't that Gregory's words affected him; he knew that the man just wanted to drive him up the wall. It was mostly a diversion from his own irresponsibility, but still, he couldn't look past the fact that, though the accusations came from that faint-hearted fucker, there was a certain truth in them.

"You need to start to understand that we're not the enemy," Rick said, his voice low.

"From my point of view, you're not friends either," Gregory replied defiantly.

"Why don't y'all leave me alone with him, huh?" Daryl spat, "won't take me long to make him talk."

"Daryl…" Maggie warned.

"What? He betrays his people first, then leaves like a fuckin' coward when things get ugly, and now he accuses others of bein' the cause of all this mess. He's a fuckin' liar—where didja go? Huh?!" the archer exclaimed, taking a step forward.

Paul stopped him before he could move any closer.

"See!" Gregory said, "and you expect me to trust them? They're like savages! I'm not saying anything until they leave this office."

The silence was made in the room. All eyes fell on the scout, expectant. It was obvious that Rick and his people wouldn't hesitate to get up from their seats and leave the office if he asked them.

Paul took a deep breath, "They aren't going anywhere," he replied calmly.

Gregory made a disgusted sound and stood up, "Okay, there's nothing more to talk about, then. If you'll excuse me, I am going to my room, I'm pretty tired."

"Your room isn't your room anymore," Paul said before the man could leave the office.

"What?"

"Claire and her family are staying there now. She's going to have her baby in a couple of months—they need a quiet, comfortable place."

Gregory let out a sarcastic laugh, "What is this? What are you trying to tell me? Are you going to throw me out? Is that it?"

"No, of course not, Gregory, we're not like that, Hilltop's never been like that—we'll assign you a new room, it's just that it may not be as large and bright as the one you occupied before."

The gray-haired man stepped forward, facing the scout. Paul saw out of the corner of his eye that Daryl moved beside him, but he shot the archer a glance to warn him against doing anything stupid.

"Are you the one in charge of the community now?" The man asked hoarsely.

"No, I just try to help, as I've always done."

"Who's in charge then?"

"We haven't decided yet."

"Are you telling me that this boat is drifting and none's at the helm?"

"I didn't say that. The community's working perfectly, we just haven't had time to iron out the details."

"And what the hell are you waiting for? They need a boss."

"No, they don't need a boss, what they need is someone they can trust and rely on—and frankly I don't think you're that person."

Gregory threw his head back, grimacing in disgust.

"Have you asked them or did you draw that conclusion by yourself?"

Paul shrugged in response.

"That's what I thought, the _good_ old Jesus, always so willing to help and showing his best face, while he goes around working his tricks in the shadows. You always wanted to get me out of the way but I'm not going to give up so easily, I don't care if you have all these bodyguards here with you, let's go out and ask those people, let Hilltop decide who they want running this colony."

Paul looked to Rick, Maggie, and Michonne, who were silent, but the firm expression in their faces showed that they would come out in his favor whatever he said. Then he set his eyes on Daryl, who seemed to be ready to tear into Gregory's throat at any moment.

"Okay," the scout said, "that's fair, let Hilltop decide; we'll hold a council this afternoon."

"Perfect," the gray-haired man replied, "now, if it's not too much ask, I'd like to know where my new room is."

* * *

By mid-afternoon, the murmur amongst the neighbors was all that could be heard in Barrington House's library. After announcing the council, everyone had gathered there to discuss the future of the colony. Paul had exposed the problem of maintaining the current situation for much longer. They needed to establish an administration to optimize the workflow of the colony and they had to do it as soon as possible.

"We're going to have to vote, it has to be a consensual decision," the scout said.

In the back of the room, away from the crowd, were the members of Alexandria, patiently watching what was happening there.

"How are we going to vote if there are no candidates? We can't vote for each other, that's crazy!" someone commented.

"I know, that's why—"

"I present myself as a candidate," Gregory interrupted, rising from his chair and walking to where Paul was standing in front of all of them. "I know a lot has happened lately, and even if you don't believe it, running a colony like this, is not easy. There are people out there who wouldn't hesitate a second to cut my head off—you know that but still, I owe you, and so I volunteer myself once again for this position."

Paul rolled his eyes and sighed, irritated, in that moment he just wanted to raise his voice, and tell Gregory to fuck off but even before he could say anything again, Brianna rose from her seat in the middle of the room.

"Are we allowed to make suggestions?" the woman asked.

"That's what we're here for," Paul replied.

"Okay," she said, straightening her back, as if she wanted everyone to hear her clearly, "I think that during these past months we've seen who has gone out of their way for this community's welfare and who hasn't. Jesus has always been here for us all and has always come to our defense even in the most critical and complicated situations—but not only that, in recent weeks we've seen another person's tremendous generosity, someone who has been devoted to this colony from the very moment she was able to put a foot out of bed. Someone who has collaborated, helped and suggested things with the sole purpose of seeing Hilltop thrive and grow, without expecting anything in return—that person is Maggie. I propose her as a candidate."

There was a rumble in the room as soon as Brianna sat down again. Then Amelia rose from her chair.

"I also vote for Maggie."

"Me too," Harlan said.

"I also vote for Maggie," Alex added, sat at the end of the room, near the door.

"Yes, I also think she would be a good candidate," Earl said.

And so, a few more voices rose in favor of Brianna's proposal.

Startled, Paul looked up at Maggie. Her expression faltered between amazement and shock.

"All right, let's hear what she has to say," the scout said, waving his hand toward her.

Maggie moved with reluctance, all eyes on her. Paul gave her a warm, reassuring smile, and held out a hand when she was close enough. She took it gratefully.

"You decide," he said in a whisper, "but don't feel forced, okay?"

"Whatever I decide… are you going to be by my side?"

"Always."

Maggie smiled nervously and then turned to look at all the people waiting for an answer. It was obvious that the woman felt that everything was happening too fast but it was almost impossible to ignore the expressions on their faces, all reflections of hope and optimism.

"Okay," she said after a moment, "yes, I'll do it. I'll present myself as a candidate."

The crowd exploded into an enthusiastic roar, while Gregory shook his head from side to side in disbelief.

* * *

After the library emptied, they devoted much of what was left of the afternoon and evening to prepare all they needed for the voting that was going to take place the next day. They made a list of all the inhabitants of the community who were over eighteen, and prepared the same number of blank papers in which they would only have to write down the name of the candidate of their choice, and put it into a box.

The following day went by normally, the reconstruction work continued despite the voting process, and while some people were devoted to their tasks, others took their breaks to deposit their ballots in the cardboard box that was well-guarded in the library.

"Are you nervous?" Paul asked Maggie as he went to the kitchen to see if the meal was going to be ready in time.

"I would be lying if I said no. Actually, there's a part of me that doesn't want to be elected, but then I imagine Gregory in charge of this place again…"

"I've seen him talking to some people. I guess he's trying to win their sympathy again, along with some votes, but I'm positive."

With the fall of the sun and with all the ballots in, the time came to count the votes. The library was crowded and expectant, while Tammy—who had been randomly chosen for the task—took out the papers, reading the content aloud.

Maggie was not in the room; she had decided to wait until the final result was known. Paul, however, was inside, by one of the windows, arms folded to keep his hands from his mouth. He was nervous and restless; the votes were closer than he would have expected. In fact, there were two occasions when Gregory had managed to get ahead of Maggie, the second with a six-point lead. Luckily that changed quickly and Maggie got ahead again by a great margin.

"Can you jus' calm down?"

Paul winced at the sound of Daryl's voice, he hadn't felt or saw him approach. He had spent most of his time outside, alongside Maggie and the rest.

"I know it's impossible for Gregory to win with this difference, but I'm still nervous."

Neither of them looked away from Tammy as she pulled out the papers from the cardboard box.

"There's only one left," she announced after awhile. The flame-haired woman pulled out the paper and read it aloud, "Maggie!"

The room erupted into a shout of joy, and Paul let out the air he had held in his lungs. Daryl put an arm around him and pulled him close to give him a reassuring kiss on the head. Paul looked at him, surprised by the gesture—the archer seemed to have forgotten that practically the whole community was there, though he doubted anyone had noticed; all seemed too busy celebrating Maggie's victory.

Paul and Daryl went outside to join the rest, while Maggie was congratulated by men and women, until Gregory approached her.

"Congratulations, _Natalie_ , I guess I have no choice but to accept my defeat."

"It's Hilltop's decision."

"Yeah, I guess—anyway, I wish you well; you'll learn for yourself that running a community is not an easy task."

Maggie didn't answer and Gregory fixed his disdainful eyes on Paul.

"I hope you're happy, your campaign has worked."

"What campaign?"

"Washing their brains to set them against me."

Paul shook his head, "they don't need anyone to brainwash them, Gregory—they're not blind."

After the endless wave of congratulations, they all gathered in _The Exiles of Barrington House's_ trailer, set a couple of tables in between the kitchen and the hall, and crowded together to dine.

"Okay, okay…" Rick said, raising his glass in the air when they were about to finish the dinner, "I want to make a toast to someone very special, today—Maggie. I've never seen anyone, to whom life has thrown so many obstacles, rise again with the strength to stand up and fight back. With Michonne's permission…" he said jokingly bending over to lay his lips on the woman's cheek, "you are one of the strongest women I've ever had the pleasure of meeting, and I hope you know that, you may have lost a part of your family but you have also won another. I think I can speak for all when I say that the miles between Hilltop and Alexandria are not enough to keep us apart, and that we'll always be with you. For Maggie!"

"For Maggie!" All responded.

"Come on, you're going to make me cry!" the woman said, pretending to wipe her cheeks, but the truth was that her eyes were full of tears. Then she lifted her glass in the air, just as Rick had done, "I also want to take the opportunity to toast to someone special tonight. Someone who might not have been part of this particular family for very long, but who has shaken in our lives like an earthquake, and I think I can say, without any fear of making a mistake, that he has managed to win over everyone's heart." Maggie said gesturing toward Paul and all set their eyes on him.

The scout smiled shyly, though grateful for Maggie's words.

"Welcome to the family!" Tara exclaimed.

"Welcome!"

Paul looked at Daryl who was sitting in front of him, smiling. The scout couldn't help but feel overwhelmed by the warmth offered by these people who, as Maggie had said, had only known him for a few weeks, and yet had opened their arms to him as if welcoming an old friend.

"C'mon! Don't be shy, say something!" Tara urged.

Paul laughed followed by the rest, and then cleared his throat.

"Okay… after this damn world took away from me the last person I had left in my life, I thought that maybe being alone was the best way to survive. The truth is that this hermit-like mentality helped me to get to where I am today—or at least it did, until one day I was amazed to see two fuckers robbing me of a truck full of supplies, which I'd hidden in a sorghum—"

"Wait…" Rick interrupted, "was it yours?"

Paul just waved his hands in the air, like that was only a trifling detail of the story.

"Now I understand everything…" Rick said.

"I jus' thought he was a damn persistent prick," Daryl joked.

Paul laughed, "well, I am actually but obviously things changed radically from that moment and I suddenly realized that maybe being alone was not the best way; we really need to unite and fight together for a better world. I never imagined being surrounded by something similar to a family ever again, but I'm glad to be part of this one."

The group responded enthusiastically to his words.

"That was very nice, but be honest," Tara burst out then, "it makes you happy to be closer to some than others… What did you say that thing on your neck was, Daryl?"

The archer quickly put a hand to his neck, covering the red mark, but the table burst into laughter. The two men blushed intensely even though they laughed with the rest.

"Wait…" Rick said, "Am I missing something? What are you talking about?"

The laughter became even louder.

"I'll explain you later…" Michonne said chuckling.

* * *

Paul sat on the desk in his room when he heard a knock on the door, "hello…" he said as soon as Daryl entered.

"I'm sure that armchair has a dent to match your butt."

"Maybe that's why I'm so comfortable."

Daryl walked over and sat down in the other chair by the desk, "What's wrong?"

Paul frowned, "Why do you ask?"

"Because Maggie has jus' won and yet you don't look too happy 'bout it—you worried about somethin'?"

The scout caught some air, "wow, archer, you're more insightful than I thought."

"Maybe you're jus' easy to read…"

Paul smiled slightly, but his face instantly became serious, "I just didn't expect Gregory to get so many votes."

"Yeah, me neither…"

"He has more support than I thought and I know him, I know he won't accept defeat so easily, and I worry that he might plan something against Maggie."

Daryl shook his head, implying that he understood what he was saying, "we ain't gonna to let him, Maggie has our backs."

"I know… I know." The scout rubbed his forehead and took another big breath. "Anyway, did you come just to ask me this? I thought you were going to bed?"

"Yeah, but Tara must not be very sleepy and started cleanin' the mess from dinner. She ain't exactly bein' quiet about it."

"Wouldn't it be much more considerate of you to help?"

"I tried, but she kicked me out—so… I thought that… maybe I could spend the night here…" he said as he scratched the back of his neck, then set his eyes on the scout's. "Rub that stupid smile off yer face, it's jus' to sleep."

Paul laughed, "I didn't say anything," he defended himself.

"Bein' honest, I wanna make sure you actually sleep a bit—I swear, if I've gotta spend all night in this chair on watch, I will."

The scout shook his head from side to side, laughing, "okay, you can stay, _just to sleep_ , but I'm not going to let you spend all night sitting in that chair." Paul studied the archer's outfit, which was what he usually wore: his jeans, boots, shirt and vest. "Let me take a look and see if I have some clothes for you here."

"S'okay, I'm fine."

"Don't be an idiot, you're not going to sleep in that," Paul said, standing up and walking toward the closet, "unless you prefer to sleep without anything on—to each their own…"

"Yeah… you wish…"

"I remind you that I've already seen you naked, Dixon."

Daryl's cheeks burned like fire.

"Don't blush, man," Paul added with a smile, "you got nothing down there that you should be ashamed of."

Daryl chuckled modestly as Paul reached for something in the closet. He didn't have too many clothes, in fact much of what he had in there had been gifted by some of his neighbors. Most were garments that were too big for him and that he only used when he locked himself in the room to try to disconnect from the rest of the world.

"Here," he said, handing him a pair of black sweatpants and a brown sweater, "I suppose this will suit you."

Daryl picked up the clothes and stared at them for a moment. Then with care, he put them over the desk, and started to untie his boots. Paul could feel his nervousness just by observing the parsimony with which he moved his hands.

"I can wait outside if you want," the scout said gently.

The archer seemed to hesitate for a second, "Nah."

"Okay…"

After untying the boots, Daryl took them off and got up with his back to Paul, then he began to unbuckle the belt of his pants—again the discretion in his movements was more than evident. The scout turned around and sat on the bed, forcing his eyes on the door as he waited for Daryl to finish undressing himself and to put on the clothes he'd been given. He could notice his movements out of the corner of his eye, and he felt his heart racing inside his chest.

The scout sighed and closed his eyes trying to tell his body that they were just going to sleep.

"Where didja get these?" The archer asked suddenly.

Paul turned to look at him and he laughed when he saw him dressed like that—in mundane clothes that were too boring and much too big for him.

"You should see yourself… you look ridiculous," the scout said with a smile.

"Have you looked yourself in the mirror?" The archer said pointing the gray pants he usually wore and the black sweatshirt that was at least two sizes larger than he needed.

"I suppose the generosity of these people is directly proportional to the size of the clothes they give me."

Daryl went to the bed and Paul got up, but again they both stayed quiet and not quite sure of what to do.

"Uhm… do you have any preferences?" Paul said, pointing both sides of the bed.

"Nah, you?"

"Well I… I do prefer to sleep near the door, if you don't mind—It's just a habit, you know? Just in case something happens and I have to run out."

"Okay."

"Okay…"

Paul pushed aside the sheets and blankets, and got into the bed, Daryl did the same seconds later and the two sat for a while without saying anything.

"Are you comfortable?" Paul asked then.

"Yeah…"

Paul laughed, "you're so rigid that you look like a trunk, I remind you that this was your idea."

"I know jus'… turn off the light."

"Okay."

The scout turned off the lamp in the dresser next to the bed, and they laid down with their backs to each other. It was a rather large bed, but still it was impossible not to feel the presence of the other.

Paul sighed slightly and closed his eyes, though he was quite sure that sleep would be practically impossible. All the things that had happened there in just twenty-four hours, what was to come, the man lying next to him… The scout remembered what had happened two days ago, in the trailer, alone together in the archer's tiny bed. Paul felt an intense tingling in his stomach, though it was not just because of the physical aspect of what had happened—of course he had enjoyed that, every kiss, every touch… but the thing that had satisfied him the most was to see Daryl finally letting himself be carried away, leaving aside those fears and doubts that make him so uneasy.

"Sleep," Daryl said, breaking the silence of the room.

"How am I supposed to sleep if you keep talking?"

"I know you're awake."

"I don't have the power to fall asleep in two seconds, man."

The archer said nothing else and Paul couldn't help but smile, and suddenly he remembered all those times that Ben had had to drag his sleepy ass out of bed—things had changed so much since then, that he was sure he had stopped being that man a long time ago. It had been a long time since he'd pictured himself being capable of loving someone like he had done in the past, or sharing the same bed with another person—he hadn't even spent a whole night with Alex. There was always something to do; there was always an excuse to be made.

Paul took a deep breath again, and forced himself to clear his mind, at least for a moment. If he was lucky enough all that accumulated fatigue in his body would have an effect on him.

However, the hours passed, two or three, he wasn't sure—he had managed to fall asleep for half an hour or so but that was it. Now he was lying on his back, his eyes on the ceiling. From time to time he glanced at Daryl, who had changed his position and was now lying on his stomach, head buried in the pillow. Paul smiled; at least one of them had surrender to sleep.

The scout rubbed his eyes and rose from the bed carefully, trying not to wake the archer. Then he pulled the chair from his desk to the window and sat there for a long time. Thinking without thinking and observing without observing, as he looked into the night's darkness, that treacherous blackness that made them believe that that tranquility was real.

It must have been around half past three in the morning when Daryl began to move uneasily in bed, waving his arm, like he was looking for someone—probably him—and grunted when he obviously didn't find what he was looking for. The archer rubbed his face and leaned on his elbows, scanning the room with his sleepy eyes, then turned on the lamp on the small table by his side of the the bed, and his gaze finally met the scout's.

"The fuck are you doin' there?" He asked hoarsely.

Paul shrugged, "I couldn't sleep, and I move a lot when I can't—didn't want to wake you up."

The archer cursed under his breath, rubbed his face again and sat on the bed.

"I should go," he whispered then.

"It's not your fault, Daryl, it's something that's here," he said, placing a finger on his temple, "and I can't do anything about it it."

The two went silent then, while Daryl scratched his forehead as if he was trying to think of something.

"C'mere," he said after a while, patting the free space by his side and leaning his back on the head of the bed.

Paul stared at him, "let's make things clear here, I wasn't serious about getting me unconscious," he joked, rising from his chair.

"Wasn't thinkin' 'bout that, but now that you mention it…"

The scout got into the bed again and settled down next to the archer.

"Well, what's your plan?"

"Talk," Daryl replied.

"Talk?"

"Yeah, maybe if we talk 'bout stupid things, you might get bored and fall asleep."

"Okay, what do you want to talk about?"

Daryl was silent for a moment, but his cheeks turned a faint crimson color even before the words came out of his mouth.

"How was your first time?" he asked.

Paul's eyes widened, not sure he'd heard the archer clearly, then sat up to face him.

"Is that your concept of a boring conversation?"

The archer shrugged and looked down in embarrassment, "I'm jus' curios—well, maybe you haven't ever—I mean, if you ever—"

"I know what you mean…"

Paul smiled at the archer's distress, and lay down again.

"Okay… _god_ , let's see, my first time bottoming was, if I remember correctly, when I was fifteen and… it was the worst experience of my entire life. I told you that I've never hidden to anyone who I am, I've never been ashamed of it, and at that time I also was very confident, I really thought that I could get whatever I wanted—"

"You mean you're not now?" The archer joked.

"Shut up," they both laughed, but the scout's tone suddenly became serious. "I became obsessed with this guy, three years older than me, and who happened to have a girlfriend—but I didn't mind, I flirted with him whenever I saw him, and far from telling me to stop, he played along. One day I was walking home and he passed by with his car; he stopped and offered to take me. Of course, I said yes, and I think he hadn't even started the car when I laid my hand on his thigh. He didn't tell me to pull it off, and only two blocks away, he turned and we ended up on the outskirts, behind an abandoned building, making out like crazy. I don't even know how we ended up in the back seat, half naked but all of a sudden he was already putting on a condom—seriously, the fucker acted like he had been sexually deprived for years—and I got scared, I told him to calm down, to slow down, that it was my first time, that I hadn't done that before—but he wasn't listening, he turned me around and fucked me like a fucking animal."

Paul took a deep breath, "then when he finished, he told me to get out of the car, and he left me there."

"What…?" Daryl asked in surprise.

"It hurt so much—I don't think I could sit down for a week… but that wasn't the worst part. One day he came up to me and threatened me, saying that he would burn my house down with my family inside, if I dared to tell something about it," Paul chuckled sarcastically. "Like I was eager to tell that shitty story to anyone—I guess the asshole was aware that he wasn't going to frighten me with that threat, so one day he sent out a bunch of his friends to wait for me after school. They cornered me, took me to a secluded area and beat me up until I passed out."

Paul noticed Daryl shifting uneasily to his side.

"I don't remember much of what happened to be honest, when I woke up I was already in the hospital. My mother was talking to the doctor, and he was telling her that there was a chance that I would lose my left eye. Fortunately, I didn't, but as a reminder of that day I had a scar on my upper lip. I know it's silly, especially comparing it to what you had to suffer but, for a long time I wasn't able to look at myself in the mirror… seeing that scar only reminded me over and over again how stupid I was. So over the years I let my beard grow out, and the scar was hidden."

The scout sighed, "after that I didn't let a single man get near my ass," he said, making it sound like a joke, but there was resentment in his words, "until I met Ben, with him everything was so easy—there were no rules, we just did what we wanted, we…"

Again the memory of Ben made him feel a pressure on his chest. Paul leaned slightly forward, resting his elbows on his knees, rubbing his face. Then he felt Daryl's hand on his back, caressing softly.

"If that son of a bitch crosses my path some day, I'll cut off his cock and feed it to the pigs."

The words made the scout laugh, "What makes you think I wouldn't do that myself?"

Daryl just smiled.

"You know, what?" Paul said, "you were right, this story has managed to exhaust me."

Paul leaned back, letting Daryl put an arm around him.

"Let's sleep, then," the archer said.

"Yeah… let's sleep."

Paul lifted his chin slightly to meet Daryl's lips in a quick goodnight kiss, but after that came another kiss and then another…

"Thought we were gonna sleep," the archer said in a hoarse whisper.

"Mhmm…"

But Paul didn't stop kissing him, and the archer responded by pulling him closer. Their tongues brushing; demanding more with each caress.

After a few endless minutes, their mouths parted briefly—Paul left room for Daryl to lie down on the bed, and their lips met again. The scout interlaced his legs with the archer's and placed himself on top of him partially. The kisses becoming deeper and more urgent.

Daryl's hands moved along Paul's back, over his clothes, while the scout lifted the archer's brown sweater slightly, tracing the line of hair down his abdomen with his fingertips. Their breaths quickened, becoming heavy and short, as the gasps in their throats filled the room.

They were so engrossed with each other that neither of them heard the timid knocking on the door, nor did they notice the moment it opened.

"Oh, fuck…"

Surprised by the intrusion, Paul broke away from Daryl just in time to see Alex leave the room and close the door behind him.

"What the fu—?"

"Shit…"

The scout jumped out of the bed, and went out into the hall quickly, hoping to catch up with the nurse before he could reach the stairs but stopped short when he realized that Alex not only had not run away, but was there, in the hallway, planted like a statue, his skin pale looking like he'd just seen a ghost, and his eyes fixed on one of the paintings on the opposite wall.

"Alex…"

"Don't say anything…" he urged, "just go in there and tell him to dress if he needs to—we have to talk and we have to talk now."


	26. Chapter 26

Paul, Daryl, and Alex went quietly down Barrington House's stairs while the rest of the house slept peacefully. Once on the main floor, they crossed the kitchen and locked themselves in the pantry, which was on the other side. During that short walk, Paul was not able to relax the expression on his face for a single second.

"It's 4:30 in the morning, Alex, what are we doing here?" the scout asked.

The nurse turned on a dimmed light and turned to look at him, his eyes shining brightly. Alex moved his lips to say something, but the words didn't come easily. Paul was fully aware it would be very easy for Alex to mention the fact that they were not exactly sleeping when he went into the room, no matter how late it was. However, it was obvious that whatever he had to say, was far more important than any other kind of reproach.

Finally, the nurse sat down on an old wooden trunk and laid his eyes on the floor. The position of his shoulders showed distress and restlessness.

"Are you gonna to talk or what?" The archer asked, impatiently.

"Daryl…" Paul warned. "Alex, what—"

"You know that sometimes, when people come to see us, they tell us things," he said then, "I don't know why, but they do, and that's exactly why you asked me to help you with this whole thing."

The nurse paused for a moment and then took a deep breath. "Today, Andy came to see me at my trailer, I suppose he just got nervous because of the whole voting thing—I don't know, but after rambling for a while about what was going on, and how that was going to change a lot things, he ended up confessing that a few days prior the saviors' attack and before you all went out to scavenge, he told Gregory what we were doing, the real reason why you were training all those guys…"

"What?"

"This has to be a fuckin' joke," Daryl cursed.

Alex raised a hand in the air, interrupting them, "that's not the worst part—it looks like Gregory's escape was not about getting away from the chaos we were living here, he went looking for the saviors—he didn't find them but they did find him; so they took him to their settlement and there he told everything to Negan."

Paul felt he was running out of air, "this can't be true…"

Alex shook his head from side to side, "he didn't do it to punish Hilltop—at least that's what he says. He did it to punish Alexandria. According to what Andy says—that Gregory has told him—he somehow convinced them that Hilltop had nothing to do with this whole rebellion, that everything was planned by the people from Alexandria and that they had also threatened to destroy Hilltop if we didn't agree with them."

"I'm gonna to kill that son of a bitch," the archer spat as he paced back and forth rubbing his face in disbelief.

"I thought about waiting to tell you in the morning, but I couldn't sleep, couldn't stop thinking about it. I think Andy regrets what he did but he didn't dare to tell you, so I guess he came to me because he knew I would. I'm sorry to go into your room like that, but I thought you should know."

Paul nodded, not quite sure what to say. He was too stunned by the information Alex had just given them to think clearly.

"You did what you had to do, Alex."

The nurse just shrugged, "What are we going to do now?"

Paul looked at Daryl who had stopped moving around the pantry, "we hafta tell Rick—they hafta go back as soon as possible."

"I know…"

Without a second's pause, Daryl left the pantry, leaving Paul and Alex alone. The silence in his wake was so deep they could have heard a fly land from the other side of the house.

Paul rubbed his face, reluctant to believe what he had just heard. All the work of those last weeks had been reduced to nothing. The saviors were once again in control of the whole damned situation, and armed and prepared for an attack; they would be almost impossible to defeat. Thinking about what could happen if Negan prevailed upon them after such a betrayal caused him a deep anguish.

He forced himself to close his eyes and take a deep breath—he knew they couldn't give up so easily, they had to fight, they had to face them no matter what.

The scout then looked at the man who was still sitting on the trunk. His face was the pure reflection of fear but also an intense sorrow. He guessed that this was not the best moment to discuss the more personal and human aspect of what had just happened that night, but unfortunately feelings were just like that; impossible to control, and he imagined Alex's must be swirling in his chest like the angry currents of a wild river.

The scout shifted, ready to say something, but was quickly shut down by Alex.

"During these weeks I've been living in my own bubble," he said in a soft, distracted voice, his eyes still on the ground, "I've tried to concentrate on my work, to help with everything I could, not just for Hilltop but also for the plan to go as planned. I tried to look the other way, I tried to ignore what people were muttering and hinting around me but I'm not stupid Paul, I saw what was happening… and even so, there was a part of me that hoped that one day you would come to me and…"

The nurse closed his eyes, his voice was trembling, and a solitary tear slipped down his cheek. Paul sighed, dejected—he hated to see Alex like that, he didn't deserve it, and the feeling was even worse knowing that he was the cause of all that pain.

"I don't know what to say," Paul confessed, "these weeks have been crazy, and frankly it didn't even cross my mind… I—I never wanted to hurt you Alex, I hope you at least understand that. I'd like to apologize but I don't know if that's enough."

"You don't have to apologize, you were honest about your feelings but I won't deny that it hurts me that you didn't tell me, at least before I had to find it out this way."

Paul looked down, he was really speechless, "everything happened really fast…" was the only thing he could say.

Alex didn't answer, and the silence filled the air of the narrow room again.

"Are you happy?" the nurse asked after a while.

The scout stared at him, "yeah… I'm happy when I'm with him."

The nurse nodded, then rose from the trunk with a loud sigh, "I guess that's all that matters now," he said, taking a couple of steps, heading to the door but stopping in front of Paul. "I read your letter… it's a very beautiful letter." Alex sighed again, showing himself exhausted both physically and emotionally. "I hope you don't forget that we are still friends, I'm here for whatever you need."

"You're a great person, Alex—and yeah, we're still friends, we've always been friends, remember? That's not going to change."

Alex gave him a sad smile and patted him gently on the shoulder. Then he walked to the door, but before he left he turned again.

"Paul… don't let those fuckers kill you, eh?"

* * *

Daryl felt like throwing up, he felt his stomach twitching as he walked toward Paul's room. He had just awakened Rick and Michonne, scaring them as he flashed into the room, and the news he brought to them didn't help the situation at all. Then he had warned Aaron, and half-way he had met up with Paul again. His face seemed to have aged suddenly but the archer didn't have a moment to ask him anything, the scout passed by assuring him that he was going to inform Maggie—so he left the mansion, smoked a cigarette, and talked with Tara. Then he returned to the house.

When he entered the room he found Paul stuffing things in his backpack, though he stopped as soon as he noticed his presence. In just a few minutes the dark circles under his eyes had become even deeper and his gaze was the definition of sadness, anguish and impotence. Daryl wanted to get close to him, hold him and tell him that everything was going to be okay, but he knew that was no more than bullshit.

"Everyone will leave as soon as the sun comes up," the archer said in a gravelly voice, then shifted, uneasy, feeling the words he was about to utter weighing on his tongue. "I—I'm gonna to go with 'em."

Paul said nothing, just nodded, "I'll go see Ezekiel, they have to know what's going on," he said, moving again around the room and packing some things, though he did it with a calmness that was not like him, "they are our last hope, they're the only advantage we have left now…"

Neither of them spoke again for what seemed like hours. Paul kept packing things while Daryl watched those slow and hesitant movements, carefully. It was obvious that the gears in his head were turning non-stop and the archer was completely convinced that there was a part of Paul that felt responsible for everything that was happening.

And again he wanted to get close to him, and hold him in his arms but his body didn't respond to that demand.

"What have we done to deserve all this shit?" the archer said after a while and barely in a whisper.

"Being in the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess."

Daryl shook his head, "this ain't the wrong place, this is _our_ place."

"Yeah, why don't we go and tell Negan that?" Paul answered in a surprisingly harsh tone.

The archer sighed deeply, "we were ready to fight, and now we're gonna have to fight. Nothin' has really changed, in the end—I guess it's part of who we are, part of our nature. It's always been like this throughout history, right? Even a redneck like me, knows that—even animals fight for their territory."

"Animals act by instinct, they don't attack others for the pleasure of doing it—but we do, we are capable of making another person suffer and enjoy it. That's the big difference—we're driven by greed and power, no matter what."

"Not everyone's like that, Paul. You ain't like that, Rick ain't like that; neither is Maggie, nor Michonne, Aaron, Tara… we fight for somethin' good." Daryl stopped talking then and caught some air, suddenly feeling exhausted. "You know what? I hate this gloomy side of yours."

"I'm being realistic."

"Me too—and the truth's that, thinkin' 'bout it, the only difference with our plan is that now they know it, but we know they know it—we needed them out of their settlement, and we'll have them out of their settlement—we can prepare for this, we can still face them."

Paul took a deep breath, resting both hands on the back of the chair.

"Yeah… I guess you're right."

"Well, then wipe that fuckin' look off your face—shit, yer makin' me nervous."

To the archer's surprise, Paul looked up and smiled, though he was not able to hide the anxiety that, otherwise, it was obvious he was feeling.

"Paul—"

"I'm scared," he said in a whisper.

"Damn, I'm scared too…"

Paul looked away, glancing at the clock on the bedside table, then rubbed his eyes, "tomorrow's going to be a long day, you should get some rest."

"Can't believe you, of all people, are sayin' that."

Paul curved the corner of his mouth but that smile was not enough to relax the muscles of his face.

Daryl looked at the clock; the red bright digits read 5:14 am. They had a little more than two hours before the sun came up again, and the idea of leaving that room, going away from Paul, knowing that they were about to separate, and that perhaps that was the last time they could be together, made the archer feel an intense and deep pain in the chest.

He had spent much of his life hidden from the world and even from himself—too much wasted time. And as Paul had told him that night, in Barrington House's viewpoint, the clock ticked—even if the one on the small table just changed silently as it counted the minutes that passed with a speed that was starting to make him feel distressed.

He had spent much of his life wanting what he had not even been conscious of wanting. And now that he had it, now that he'd finally found someone who looked at him and liked him for who he was. Now that he had discovered who that man looking back at him in the mirror was—now they had to separate.

He didn't want to leave; he didn't want to travel far from him. He wanted to be by his side but he knew they had no choice but to do it. However, they still had those two hours before the time went off and started to run against them.

"You don't have to go," the scout said, as if those thoughts in his head had, somehow, filled the silence inside those walls, "you know you can stay, but I don't think you'll be able to sleep with me moving around the room…"

"And you think I'm gonna sleep if I go?"

Paul said nothing, and the two kept quiet for a long time, until the archer looked toward the door, watching it as if suddenly it had become a strange object. Then he approached it and locked it.

When he turned to fix his eyes on Paul, the scout was frowning, puzzled—almost instantly Daryl felt the nerves running through his veins, his chest heaving and breath hitching at the same pace as his heart. And even so, he did, though his hands shook like he was freezing. The archer slowly lifted the brown sweater that Paul had let him wear, and took it off.

Daryl felt the burning in his cheeks contrasting with the chill that ran all over his body, and he lowered his gaze so as not to look at Paul. He knew that the scout had his eyes fixed on him; he could even feel him change his position, restless, even if he didn't move from where he was, standing by the desk.

Daryl threw the sweater over the bed, and began to untie the waistband that held those huge trousers to his waist. He cursed, once again aware of the clumsiness of his fingers that seemed unable to respond normally.

"Daryl, stop…"

The archer stopped what he was doing as soon as he heard the soft sound of Paul's voice. He lifted his head and met the scout's gaze, those eyes that looked darker than usual, and that were watching him with obvious disbelief.

"What are you doing?" He asked then.

"Not even that hippie–mind of yours can ignore that this may be our last night together."

"Don't say that, don't—"

"It's the truth and you know it!" the archer answered vehemently. "I can die tomorrow, you can die tomorrow; we could both die tomorrow—fuck! I—I don't want to waste any more time, I've wasted enough already stuck in the damn past—here and now, remember? You said it, that night when you spat all that shit in my face; _here and now_ there are people who need me, and I need them—well, I need you…"

Daryl took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Not even he was sure where all those words had come from, and that he had said without thinking, as they rang in his ears like a thunderclap.

The archer's chest rose and fell erratically, awaiting Paul's response—a reaction that was not coming. The scout was so mute that the silence in the room was more thunderous than the roar of a hundred guns.

Daryl let out a resigned sigh, then took the sweater he had thrown over the bed and turned to the door.

"Daryl wait…"

"What for? Ain't gonna stand here beggin' like a fuckin' idiot for somethin' you don't want."

"It's no that, Daryl, fuck! I'd take my clothes off at the snap of a finger, if I could—but it worries me that you might only want this because of the fucking circumstances. I know we don't have time, dammit! but you have to think about yourself; you have to do it for you…"

"I'd do it for me, and I'd do it for you. I want you to—I want you to be the one…" Daryl lowered his eyes, his cheeks burning hotly.

Daryl let out a breath and plucked up courage to look back into Paul's eyes, who for a moment seemed to have run out of air. The archer's heart started beating even more furiously, raging against his chest, and suddenly he felt invaded by a strange feeling of uneasiness.

The archer swallowed as Paul stood there, still like an ice figure, watching him as if he was trying to pierce his brain with his eyes. Almost unconsciously, Daryl looked at the sweater he was holding in his hands, as if the only rational part working in his brain, was asking him to put it on again, and get out of there before making an even bigger fool of himself, while he begged for a scrap of affection like a homeless dog. But then, Paul started to move, walking toward him.

"Are you sure?" He asked softly, after stopping in front of him.

Daryl swallowed, feeling more nervous than he had been just a second earlier.

"Yeah…"

He was scared—he was fucking scared but he wanted to do it. _Fuck_ , he wanted it so bad. He wanted to do it for him and for Paul. He wanted to be able to give him even a small part of that man who had come to life after so many years hiding in himself. Yes, he was sure. He was quite sure that if these were going to be the last few hours they had together, he would squeeze every last second out of them.

Daryl blinked; shaking off those thoughts as soon as Paul took the brown sweater in his hands and tossed it back onto the bed. Then he laid his palms on his bare chest and slid them up to his neck until he placed them on either side of his face.

"If at any time you feel uncomfortable, just tell me, okay?"

Daryl could only nod in response, and without waiting a second longer the scout laid his lips on his.

They shared short, soft kisses, accompanied by warm, nervous breaths. Their tongues brushed carefully, testing each other with every touch as Paul moved his hands over his face, shoulders and arms, touching every inch of his exposed skin.

Daryl made a deep sound with his throat as he felt the soft touch of the scout's fingers on him. He wanted to feel and touch him, too, but Paul was still wearing that stupidly huge black sweatshirt. And again, as if he had read his thoughts, the scout broke off the kiss and started to take off the garment. Daryl helped him, throwing it to the floor as soon as he had it in his hands.

The archer couldn't help but study him, then. It was the first time he'd seen Paul like that, the first time he saw his thin but defined torso, those slim but strong arms that could knock down a man with the ease and agility of a daring cat. Daryl watched him, as if no one else was in the room—his soft white skin, the line of dark hair that went down his belly to disappear beneath his pants, the scar near his navel…

"What?" Paul asked, looking at him curiously.

"Nothin'… you should eat a little more."

Paul laughed and then threw himself against him again, claiming his lips in a kiss that no longer was subtle nor delicate. Daryl gasped and wrapped his arms around him, pressing him against his body as the pressure of their lips increased, wrapped in a hungry embrace.

They kissed for a long time as if nothing else existed around them, as if tomorrow wouldn't matter anymore, as if that war was not about to tear their worlds apart.

Daryl opened his eyes when his legs hit the edge of the bed, he hadn't been aware they were moving. Then Paul pushed him gently and the archer fell over the same mattress on which they'd been trying to sleep just a few hours prior.

The archer extended his arms to welcome Paul as he straddled him and they held each other tight again in a fierce embrace, kissing as if the world was really going to end tomorrow.

A faint whimper escaped Daryl's throat as Paul parted from his mouth, and began to draw a line of kisses down his cheek, moving down his neck and chest. The tension tightened the archer's stomach as Paul's lips and tongue marked every inch of his skin. Then he stopped and once again rested all the weight of his body over him to steal another firm kiss.

Daryl let himself be carried away, opening his lips almost unconsciously, letting their breaths meet again, moaning against the scout's mouth. The archer felt himself melt under the heat of his body, washing aside that tension that seemed to follow him tirelessly, like his own shadow in natural light, and forgetting all those fears he had felt at first.

Daryl could only articulate some incoherent words as his hands traveled aimlessly down Paul's back and hips. The scout compressed their bodies even further, and the archer noticed an electric tickle in his crotch. His pants tightened around him.

He needed to catch some air but Daryl refused to separate his mouth from Paul's or loosen the searing embrace they were sharing. They kissed non-stop for what seemed like hours, exploring with their lips and hands every inch of their skins as their bodies brushed and crushed together.

Then Paul broke the contact, straightening his back. Daryl groaned as he felt the weight of his body over the throbbing pressure in his pants—the sensation was short-lived, though, because Paul moved, slightly parting the archer's legs, as he settled on his knees between them.

Paul's eyes didn't leave his, then his hands settled on his thighs and he slid them up slowly. Daryl closed his eyes, letting out a muffled snarl as Paul put a hand on his crotch, moving it along his already obvious erection.

"If you want me to stop, you just have to say it."

"Ya kiddin'…" the archer replied in a breath.

Daryl opened his eyes as Paul pulled his hands away, laying them on the mattress, and saw him smile. That damned cat-charming hippie pothead was going to drive him crazy, if he hadn't already.

The archer was about to protest but Paul leaned forward, pressing his lips near his navel, and kissed his skin from his sides and hips, to his lower belly; playing with his lips and tongue, making that moment last more than Daryl thought he could stand.

The tingling in his stomach became painful as Paul's fingers grabbed the waistband of his pants. He didn't even know how, but in a second the scout undid the knot and slid the garment down just enough to reveal his erection. Daryl couldn't hold the groan that escaped his mouth as Paul licked the length of his dick before wrapping his lips around it.

"Oh fuck…"

The archer bit his lips, as if he was trying to hold inside him all those sounds that were strangling him. He tilted his head back, though his eyes never left Paul's, his body shaking from the wet feeling of his lips and tongue.

The scout then replaced his mouth with his hand and leaned forward, catching his lips again in a deep, incendiary kiss. The room's air filled with gasping and murmurs, while Daryl's hands wandered, trying to memorize the feeling of Paul's warmth skin on his own.

Daryl groaned in protest when the scout broke that contact again, and moved to try to reach with one hand, one of the drawers of the dresser by the bed. The archer took that moment to lift his head and press a kiss against Paul's shoulder.

"What are you doin'?" the archer asked hoarsely as he traced the outline of his neck with his lips.

"Don't be so impatient," Paul replied with a smile, moving and kissing him again.

That was a short kiss—Paul settled back on his knees between Daryl's legs and began to slide his pants down his thighs. The archer helped him until they finally got rid of them.

"Again…" Daryl said then.

"Again, what?"

"Me naked, you fully clothed."

"Do you want to take my clothes off, Dixon?"

Daryl took that question as an invitation, and didn't even think for a second before he sat on the bed, grabbed Paul's butt with both hands and pulled him toward him to press his lips on his belly. The archer smiled when he heard Paul gasp in surprise, while he delighted himself with the feeling of his warm, soft skin. Then he laid a hand on the scout's growing excitement.

"Shit, Daryl…" Paul exclaimed in a breath.

Even he was surprised by what he was doing, surprised by that boldness that seemed to have flushed from his mind all that insecurity that had oppressed him for so many years, but that was the effect Paul had on him. Yes, that damned chatterbox had managed to wrest that armor of false protection from him, and now, free from all that pressure, the only thing he wanted was to touch and feel him.

Daryl began to slide Paul's gray pants down his hips, still kissing his skin. His hands trembled in a strange combination of nervousness and excitement. Paul placed his hands over his and helped him until he could take them off and throw them to the floor.

Daryl watched him for a moment, under Paul's attentive and patient gaze, though this time the archer didn't pay attention to anything specific—he was only looking at a man; a man completely naked, yeah, and for the first time in his entire life he didn't feel ashamed for wanting him the way he did.

Paul took his face in his hands, forcing him to look into his eyes, and bent to capture his lips in a soft and tender kiss. Then he pushed him lightly, and they both fell back into the pillows. Daryl wrapped the scout in his arms and they kissed for a long time.

When they broke off, Daryl noticed what Paul had pulled out of the drawer—over the bed was a bottle of lube and a pair of condoms. Immediately his heart began to beat so hard that for a moment he thought it could break his ribs. Until that moment, he was feeling like he was in some sort of a dream, but now he realized that this was real, very real—they were about to do it; he was going to give himself to Paul as he had never given himself anyone else.

"You don't have to do this, Daryl," the scout said, probably reading the fear that had settled into every wrinkle of his face.

"I want to—it's jus'…"

"I know… we'll go slowly."

Paul kissed him again, trying to free some of the tension gripping in the archer's muscles.

"Turn around," he said then, in a whisper.

Daryl frowned, not quite sure.

"Trust me," Paul replied softly.

The archer turned around, lying on his stomach and felt the weight of Paul's warm body over him instantly. The scout leaned over to leave a trail of kisses down his back. Then he sat up, and as he did two nights before, in the trailer, he began massaging his shoulders.

"You good?" he asked.

"Yeah…"

Then he moved his hands along his back, sliding them gently. Daryl tried to relax under the scout's warm touch but he felt the blood bubbling in his veins as his fingers went down, until he smoothed his hot palms over his butt. Daryl felt his breath catch in his throat.

Paul repeated that massage for a while, then picked up the bottle of lube, though in that position Daryl was not able to see what he was doing.

A ragged breath slipped from Daryl's lips when he felt the liquid on his skin sliding slowly between his buttocks. Then he noticed Paul trace with his finger the trail of the gel. The archer's heart pumped with painful intensity, and a strangled snarl scratched his throat when after a moment of simple caresses Paul slipped a finger inside him.

That intimate touch did make him shake and Daryl dug his fingers into the sheets trying to free himself from the tension that gripped him. Paul bent over him to murmur in his ear words that the archer didn't register, he could only focus on Paul's hand as his finger moved inside him.

Daryl turned his head brushing his cheek against Paul's lips, who kept whispering to him. The warmth of his breath on his skin made him feel better, even if his muscles seemed unable to relax.

Paul moved just enough to press a hot kiss on the back of his neck, then he bit down lightly on the junction of Daryl's neck and shoulder. The archer responded with a deep gasp and Paul took that moment to slide another finger inside him.

"Oh, fuck—"

Daryl buried his head in the pillow, pressing his hips back against Paul's hand, instinctively—the dance of his fingers made him gasp heavily. The scout leaned forward to place his forehead against Daryl's shoulder. The archer tensed and twisted involuntarily.

Daryl exhaled sharply, in relief and frustration, when Paul stopped what he was doing, and moved a little to take one of the condoms he had left over the bed.

"We can stop now," he whispered in his ear.

Daryl could feel his heart pounding against the mattress, he didn't even think he could formulate a coherent answer, though he was sure that he was not going to stop now, the urge to feel Paul was starting to be much stronger than any other possible fear or doubt. And though his words had sounded firm, the agitation in Paul's voice made it clear that his desire was as overwhelming as his.

"Do it…" he grunted.

Paul snorted and moved back, separating the archer's legs and placing both hands on his hips, urging him to lift them. Daryl obeyed, changing his posture. Then he looked back and saw Paul putting on the condom, standing within inches of him.

Daryl turned his head again, closing his eyes and breathing slowly, waiting for what he knew was going to hurt. But he wanted it; his whole body was shaking with an unrecognizable desire.

Paul pushed in just enough, moving slowly inside him, Daryl moaned and shuddered, and Paul stopped for a moment. The scout placed both hands on Daryl's hips rocking softly. Daryl let himself be carried away by the hot pain and unconsciously pushing against the intrusion.

Daryl heard Paul's deep gasp behind him and the scout pressed with a little more force, sinking deeper and deeper into him. The archer felt the air clogged in his throat and his body tensed uncontrollably.

Paul leaned forward; Daryl could feel his body on his back. Then he moved his right hand, sliding it down his hip, until he wrapped his fingers around his erection and stroked slowly.

"Paul…"

His name had filled the air in a pleading groan even though Daryl was not quite sure what he wanted at the moment, and he didn't have time to think about it either, because Paul pushed inside him even harder, while his hand kept moving, sliding along his dick.

"Breathe, Daryl…" Paul whispered.

Daryl could only mutter some disjointed words, his muscles reacting to every touch, and to that pain and excitement that invaded him at the same time, fighting to gain control of the situation, while Paul rocked slightly back and forth, in a real exercise of self-control, as he let their bodies adapt to each other.

Then Paul rested his hand back on the archer's hip as he pulled out. Daryl looked back, surprised by the need that stirred him to feel Paul inside of him again. And, responding to his demand, even if he hadn't even uttered it aloud, Paul entered him again, slowly, but pressing harder.

Daryl moaned in shock, driven by the surprise and the overwhelming desire that raged through his body. The sound had an immediate effect on the scout, who moved back but only enough to push again, this time burying himself deep inside of him, with a moan of intense pleasure.

The archer cried but he pushed back as the jolts of pleasure and pain drained every muscle in his body, which burned with a heat that seemed to come from his inner depths.

Paul laid his body over Daryl's, and that weight was enough for both of them to fall on the sheets, glued to each other, while the scout kept moving in and out as he kissed Daryl's shoulders, and neck, and every inch of skin that was within his reach.

Daryl's body trembled with every thrust, his breath becoming increasingly erratic, as he muffled the uncontrollable moans that escaped his throat against the pillow.

"You still good?" the scout asked as he kissed his cheek.

Daryl didn't answer the question; he only moved his face so that his lips could meet Paul's in a wet and warm kiss, while the intense gasps filled the dense air in the room.

Growling, Paul shifted, kneeling on the mattress, taking Daryl with him. The archer felt himself shake every time their bodies met, his breath escaping in small gasps and each thrust forcing a groan between his lips.

"God—fuck…"

And they went on for what seemed like hours, struggling to breathe as they tensed up against each other.

"Turn around," Paul said.

Daryl turned and felt some relief as he laid his back against the mattress, though Paul didn't give him a second to catch some air; he fell on top of him, taking his mouth with his, forcing his lips to open to merge into a kiss, that wiped from Daryl's mind any hint of rational thought that might remain.

Then Paul buried himself inside him again and Daryl grunted against the scout's mouth, though their lips held fast while their bodies rocked as one.

Daryl took a deep breath when they finally broke the kiss; the warmth that flowed through his body was starting to make him dizzy. Then he heard Paul hissing a curse and felt his hips losing rhythm.

"Fuck… I won't last much longer."

Almost instinctively, Daryl wrapped one hand around himself, stroking firmly, and with the other he plunged his fingers into the scout's hair, pulling him downward and taking hold of his mouth with his own, catching in his throat the intense moan that escaped Paul's lips.

As the seconds passed, the gasps became sharper and faster, Daryl knew that Paul was on the edge and he could also feel his body trembling uncontrollably.

"Daryl—oh, fuck…"

Paul let out a choked cry, and his body trembled as he released violently inside him. It was enough for Daryl to feel a scorching heat that dragged him along with it. He shuddered, breathing hard, until he finally exploded in a wave of pleasure that he thought would break him in two.

Their breath as they tried to regain their usual rhythm was the only sound in the room for a long while.

Daryl felt the dampness of his orgasm all over his abdomen, but that didn't seem to bother either of them. Daryl had his arms around Paul, one hand on his back, the other one caressing his hair, while Paul lay on top of him with his face buried in his neck. Daryl felt the heat of his breathing with each erratic movement of his chest.

"You have no idea…" the scout said, whispering in his ear, "how long it's been since I've felt something like this."

"I've never felt anythin' like this before."

Daryl could feel Paul's smile against his skin, then the scout pressed his lips on his neck, offering him a soft, sweet kiss.

Daryl had definitely never felt anything remotely like it; that torrent of emotions had made him lose his mind completely. However, he soon felt a strong and anxious pressure on his chest, remembering and understanding this might be the first and last time he could experience something like that.

* * *

The sky began to lighten. On the horizon, streaks of rose and gold could be seen beyond the mountains. Paul was sitting in his chair, where he had left it, by the window. One leg resting on the windowsill, the other on the floor jerking uneasily up and down, while he tried to distract himself, watching the tops of the trees lit up with the first rays of sun.

He would have liked to stay in the bed, cuddled up next to Daryl, but after they cleaned themselves off, the archer had fallen asleep quickly. Paul, however, as had been happening for weeks now, was unable to get caught up in that pleasant unconsciousness. Not even after what had happened there between the two—or perhaps that was reason why the scout was unable to sleep a wink.

Paul felt a burning tingle in his stomach just thinking about it, he still couldn't believe what had happened, and much less that it was Daryl the one who asked for it.

The scout rubbed his eyes reluctantly, he might not be able to succumb to sleep, but he still felt tremendously tired. And yet a slight smile was drawn on his lips—it was a sad smile, though, because that was it, that moment that had been scaring Daryl so much, had come to an end.

He sighed heavily and turned his head when he heard a wild moan coming from the other side of the room. He saw Daryl move under the sheets as he tried to stretch himself. The scout smiled and stood up to sit on the edge of the bed, and as soon as he felt his weight the archer opened his eyes, looking at him for a few seconds with a big frown.

"Good morning," Paul said softly.

Daryl sat up slowly, leaning his back against the head of the bed, not changing that expression of bewilderment that he seemed to be unable to erase from his face. Then he looked him up and down, and his brow furrowed even deeper when he realized that Paul was already dressed.

The archer looked at the watch that at that moment read 7:23 am.

"Why didn'tcha wake me up?" He asked hoarsely.

"Because you still had some time to rest."

Daryl didn't look particularly pleased with that answer, and Paul knew that he probably wanted to make some mention of his already worrying lack of sleep. However, and for once, the archer didn't say anything.

"How do you feel?" the scout asked.

Daryl dropped his shoulders and his expression relaxed a bit, "weird…"

Paul smiled, "wow… you're honest."

The archer blushed slightly and looked down, "Ain't that—it's…" he sighed, "I feel good but… I also feel sad, and frustrated, and pissed off—all at the same time."

Paul grimaced. He understood perfectly what Daryl meant because he felt exactly the same. The scout put a hand on his cheek and leaned forward until their foreheads touched.

"I wish things were different…" Paul said, regretfully.

"I don't know," Daryl said in a whisper, "I never had anythin' in my life—the world had to end for me to realize that there were people that I could connect with… Rick, Carol, Maggie… you. I feel like I can't complain; I have more than I deserve."

Paul smiled, brushing some strands of hair out of his face, "You deserve more than you think—It's just that we may have to fight for it."

Daryl pulled away from him, looking into his eyes, "maybe…" he said, then he began to shake his head, as if suddenly the words had taken on a new meaning for him and his soft expression transformed into one of full confidence, "yeah… let's fight for it. Let's go out there and kill those motherfuckers."

* * *

Outside of Barrington House the cars were set up one after the other, ready to go.

"What are we going to do with Gregory?" Rick asked, closing the trunk where he had put some of the weapons they had lent to Hilltop.

"Forget about Gregory for now," Maggie replied, "we have more important things to do."

Rick sighed and shook his head as if he still couldn't believe what was happening.

"I guess that's how our life is now," Michonne said, approaching Maggie and wrapping her arms around her friend in a deep embrace, "One day we're celebrating, the next we're getting ready for war."

"I can go with you," Daryl said just a few feet away, standing by the car Paul was setting for him.

"No, they need you there."

"You could need help, too."

"I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?" Rick asked, approaching them.

"Yeah, I can do this alone."

Michonne, Maggie, Aaron and Tara, also joined them.

"I'll get there and tell them everything—and I'll try to get them ready to leave as soon as possible. Expect our arrival in two days." the scout said.

"Yes, I'll prepare everything so Hilltop can be there in two days, too," Maggie added.

They all looked at each other, momentarily reluctant to put an end to their farewell, but they knew they had to; they knew they had to get going without further delay.

Maggie was the first to take the step, hugging Paul, "be careful," she whispered in his ear.

Paul couldn't answer; the words seemed to have stuck in his throat. After a few seconds, they separated and then Maggie hugged Daryl. The scout turned away from them to let the group say goodbye. Then he realized that Alex was not far away from there watching them.

"Hi…" the scout said approaching him.

Alex didn't answer, he just stood there looking into his eyes for a moment, until he finally took Paul's hand and tugged the sleeve of his shirt up to fasten a leather bracelet around his wrist.

"My little sister made this for me," he said softly as he tied it, "she did it when I was in my final exams, she told me it was a good luck charm. I've never been a superstitious person but the truth is that I passed all my exams, and since then I've always had the feeling that it's helped me somehow."

"Alex, I don't think I—"

"You just give it back to me when you get back, okay?"

The nurse gave him a quick hug and then headed to the hospital trailer.

Next to the cars, they all were waiting now, ready to leave. Around them, Hilltop's people worked away as usual, completely oblivious to what was really happening there. For them, this was just another expedition; no one could imagine that at that moment a new stage was beginning for all of them—a new way with just two possible endings: victory or defeat.

Paul had longed for it somehow, he had longed to be free from that lunatic's tyranny, but suddenly he felt a stifling anxiety pressing on his chest, and he knew that it was largely due to the prospect of separating from Daryl and the rest. The archer was right, what was to come was utterly unpredictable and this could really be the last time they saw each other alive.

The scout opened the door of the car, letting out a deep sigh, then looked at the rest, who also seemed to carry with them a wave of doubts, though they all knew that there was no turning back; it was time to go.

Then everyone started to get inside the cars—all but Daryl, who didn't take his eyes off Paul. The archer murmured something unintelligible and then approached him in a couple of hurried strides, then he took his face in his hands and captured his lips in a strong and intense kiss, full of feelings, though the most avid of them all at that moment was despair.

When the archer let go of him, he walked back to the car without taking his eyes off him.

"Two days," he said, trying to control the trembling in his voice, "two days… don't make me go out there lookin' for yer lazy ass, huh?"

The doors finally closed and Paul also entered his car with a heavy sigh. He put a hand on the steering wheel as he watched the other vehicle cross Hilltop's walls and drive away. Then he took a deep breath and started the engine. The time had come—it was time to change things.


	27. Chapter 27

The echo of Rick's voice reverberating on the church's walls was the only thing that kept Daryl awake. They had arrived early in the afternoon, and as soon as they got out of their cars, Rick had called everyone to explain the serious problem they were about to face.

"We expect the people from the Hilltop and the Kingdom to arrive in two days," he said, "they will come not only to help us, but also to put an end to this whole situation once and for all. In the meantime, we will organize different groups to watch the place and search the area, to make sure there's no one who's not a friend hanging around."

"What if the saviors come before they arrive?" Father Gabriel asked.

Rick stared at him for a few seconds as he filled his lungs with a great breath of air, "Then, we'll face them with what we have."

After organizing the groups and shifts for the different tasks, they left the church. The atmosphere around them had become thick and reserved, like an invisible fog clinging to their clothes and squeezing them to their bones. They had been preparing for this—that was true—but now that the confrontation was imminent, the reality of the situation seemed to have struck them with an unexpected force.

Night fell fast, perhaps too fast, Daryl thought, sitting on the porch stairs of Aaron and Eric's house. A cigarette hung from his lips as he sharpened his knife.

"Wow… where did you get that knife? It's very nice."

Daryl turned as soon as Aaron's voice cut through the tense air. The archer was so engrossed in his own thoughts that he hadn't heard the other man come out the house and approach him. For a moment he had the feeling that his mind hadn't left Hilltop just yet, nor Barrington House, nor Paul's room, nor the feeling of his sheets hugging his body; nor anything else…

Daryl sighed heavily. He didn't want to think about everything else because then his stomach began to contract as if he was being pummeled. The memory of his lips, the feel of skin against skin, hands caressing him like no one else had ever done…

"Yeah, it's a real good knife—Hilltop's blacksmith made it."

"Really?" Aaron asked, sitting down beside him and taking it out of his hands to have a look. "It's an awesome piece."

Daryl remained silent for a moment, pondering the need to make the next clarification, but the words came out of his mouth almost spontaneously, "Paul asked him to make it for me."

Aaron's lips curved instantly.

"The truth is—I don't understand why he did it," the archer continued, "at that time I was bein' a real dick to him and everyone else."

"Maybe he's just a good person," Aaron replied, handing him the knife back.

"He is…"

Silence overcame the night that hung over them once again, and for a long while the sharp sound of the knife's blade ripping against the sharpening stone was the only thing that could be heard.

"Why don't we go inside and eat something?" Aaron asked, finally bursting the feigned tranquility.

"Ain't hungry," Daryl replied hoarsely.

"I see—you know what? I'm not hungry either, but unfortunately we're not going to win this war by just sitting around lamenting our situation." Aaron stood up. "Come on—get up, let's make some delicious spaghetti, and this time we'll make it Eric's way. How does that sound?"

A timid smile eased the tension on Daryl's face, "Doesn't sound bad."

The two men entered the house and began to prepare something to eat. From a drawer Aaron pulled out two candles that he lit and placed on the table. Then, out of a cupboard, he took out chinaware that Daryl hadn't seen until then and sensed was quite expensive. The man set three plates on the counter, then, reluctantly, took one of them and put it back in its place.

"I still don't get used to it," he said in a small voice. "Eric and I found this the same day we moved into the house—it looks like it's going to break just by looking at it. Eric always said we should save it for a special occasion," he laughed sadly, "I suppose this can be that special occasion."

"Why?"

"Because…"

Because it could be the last chance they might have to sit together over a basic spaghetti dinner. Daryl was convinced that those would've been Aaron's words if the man had bothered to say them out loud—but he didn't, so the archer took the plates and placed them on either side of the table, then looked for a couple of forks and glasses and sat down. Aaron joined him shortly afterwards with the food and a bottle of wine, and they ate in silence for a long time.

"They're not gonna attack tonight, though I'm sure they'll probably do it tomorrow," the archer said suddenly.

"Why do you think that?" Aaron asked with some alarm in his voice.

"Because that's our fuckin' luck—I don't think either the Crazy King or Hilltop will arrive in time."

"Well, we'll try to fight back, then…"

Daryl shook his head, aware that they had no choice but to do so.

"Paul told me yesterday that he was scared," he said after a while, in a whisper, "I told him that I was too, but the truth's that I'm not afraid to die, it's uhm… I'm afraid of staying here, and seeing others go, I'm tired of that…"

For a moment Aaron said nothing, just stared at the food on his plate, thoughtfully.

"I'm sorry," Daryl said then.

"Why?"

"For that bullshit, I can't imagine what you or Tara or Maggie have been through."

Aaron shook his head from side to side, "Sometimes I want to just close my eyes and never open them again, but then I think that the only thing I've ever wanted in my life was to see Eric being happy, and I know he wouldn't be happy if he knew that that sort of thought crossed my mind. It's not easy, but in the end we have no choice but to accept that we're still here, and that it may be for a reason—I don't believe in fate, but it's obvious that, with or without them, life goes on."

Daryl nodded but the knot that formed in his throat was so strong, that for a moment he had the feeling that the air was not reaching his lungs. Suddenly he felt guilty for bringing the subject up, though the other man laid a hand on his, and offered him a warm and friendly smile.

"Hey…" he said softly, "I'm very happy for you, for real, Daryl—and not only because you've found someone who can put a smile on your face, but because you've finally found yourself." Aaron released his hand then. "Let's eat before it gets cold."

* * *

"Here," Rosita said, offering him a piece of bread and some cheese.

Daryl took it, though his appetite had waned with the passing hours. The archer still felt a knot in the pit of his stomach, but as Aaron had said, they wouldn't be able to face the saviors armed only with good intentions.

That morning, he had got out of bed before the first rays of sunlight streamed through his window. He had hardly slept all night, thinking of endless strategies that might have worked, if they had had more people than what they actually had in Alexandria—he understood that, in the end, all they had was the protection of the walls around them, and he knew that even that wasn't enough.

However, it was when he thought about Paul that his chest really contracted, shrinking as if an invisible hand were crushing his lungs. He knew he shouldn't worry too much about him; he knew that Paul was more than capable of taking care of himself. He was sure that he had arrived at The Kingdom safely, and that he probably was already planning, alongside the Crazy King, their departure for Alexandria. Still, he couldn't help imagining him finding some sort of mishap in the middle of the road, something that could delay or hurt him, while he was stuck, miles away, unable to do anything to stop it, unable to do anything to help him.

Daryl sighed and took a piece of bread to his mouth, though he chewed unenthusiastically. They had been prowling around Alexandria for a few hours now, keeping watch in the nearby woods, which surrounded both roads that lead directly to the community. During that time, they only had found themselves with some walkers that they had taken off without major problems. It was almost ironic that in that world they had to live in, those beings, that walked among them without any possible explanation, were now the least of their concerns.

"So… you and Jesus," Rosita said, sitting down to eat on a fallen log.

Daryl looked at her for a brief second, then stared again at the road that was a couple of miles away, but visible from the top of the hill where they'd stopped to rest.

"What?" Daryl asked.

Rosita just shrugged, "Nothing, I'm actually surprised by how un-surprised I am," the woman changed her position then, and continued eating. "We have at least a couple of hours before our shift is over. Following that path," she said, pointing to an invisible path that hid under the fallen leaves, "we can go around Alexandria without losing sight of the road."

A noise surprised them before Daryl could nod in agreement. They both stood up, fully alert, and listened carefully until they realized that it was only a walker.

"I'll take care of it," the woman said, putting the last piece of bread into her mouth and walking decisively toward the creature.

Rosita fastened her knife quickly and precisely into the walker's temple—a large woman in a long, tattered nightgown, as if death had met her in the most unexpected way.

"Let's go," Daryl said.

For the next two hours, they walked silently through the tree trunks. Their senses were honed in on anything that moved; anything not leaves stirred by the wind, animals fleeing frightened by their presence or walkers that crossed their path as mere anecdotes that were no longer worth their attention.

They were less than a mile from Alexandria when Rosita stopped dead in her tracks, still as a wax statue. Daryl watched her intently, trying to figure out what had made the woman stop so suddenly, but then he heard the roar of a car engine, audible from that distance.

They both looked at each other, and as if given a silent order that only they could have understood, they began to run among the tree trunks searching for a higher vantage point.

A few minutes later, they reached a slight rise not far from Alexandria. From there, they could see the opposite side of the main door, and also the road leading directly to the community. Daryl quickly pulled the binoculars out of the backpack he carried on his shoulders, and scanned the horizon, whose light was beginning to fade with the imminent fall of the sun.

"You see something?" Rosita asked softly, though there was clearly a trace of impatience in her tone.

"I see a car—a black van."

"Just one car?"

"Yeah, just one car."

"Let me see," Rosita said, taking the binoculars away from him. The woman watched carefully for a few seconds. "It's Negan's."

The mere mention of his name made the little food Daryl had eaten turn in his stomach.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, he showed up in that same car the last time, but…"

"But what?"

"It makes no sense for him to come alone."

Daryl took the binoculars again and scanned the entire area, looking for more vehicles, but he saw nothing, not even a trail of dust lost in the air. However, Rosita was right, it didn't make sense that he showed up there with just a few men.

"Abraham, Rosita here, do you copy? Over."

The archer lowered the binoculars and saw Rosita with the radio stuck to her mouth, "Abraham, Rosita here, do you copy? Over," she repeated.

A few seconds passed before the radio made a sound, "Copy that—have you seen the car?"

Daryl and Rosita looked at each other, "Yes, we've seen the car, where are you?"

"We're getting into Alexandria right now. We're getting ready."

Even on the radio his voice sounded agitated.

"Understood—Daryl and I are still a mile away, we're gonna make sure the area is clear—this bastard is probably just trying to distract us.

Rosita stopped talking, but there was no response from the other side of the radio. Daryl picked up the binoculars again and watched.

"They're close."

They moved hurriedly through the trees, as the dusk tinged the area with an orange light that grew darker with the passing seconds. Daryl and Rosita ran like two animals ready to hunt a fleeing prey, until they stopped not far from Alexandria's walls. They hadn't glimpsed anything suspicious along the way, nothing seemed to indicate that more cars were approaching, and from there they couldn't see what was happening inside the community, though they could imagine that Negan had arrived already.

They inspected the surroundings for a long time but found nothing, and the night fell upon them faster than they would've wished. However, they continued moving through the woods around Alexandria, scanning the road as far as the darkness allowed them to see.

"We should go back," Rosita said quietly, "everything's too quiet, even in the community."

Daryl shook his head. She was right; that calm, far from reassuring him, made him even more nervous than he already was.

"Let's take a look from the back and see what's going on," the archer added.

The two walked stealthily back to the community, only accompanied by the sound of their footsteps crackling on the dry dead leaves, their eyes trained on the blackness that seemed to become thicker and more impenetrable with each step.

Suddenly Daryl reached out and grabbed Rosita to keep her from moving. The woman frowned at him—they were only a few yards from the walls, and there, at a short distance from them, with its back towards them, was a figure crouched by the trunk of a tree. The archer couldn't tell whether if it was a man or a woman, but the black clothes made it look like an entity born from the night itself.

Daryl and Rosita carefully hid behind the trees—then the woman hit the archer's shoulder. Daryl looked at her, and Rosita pointed her head to their right. A few feet away, was another crouching figure, with its eyes also fixed on Alexandria's walls. Daryl looked in the opposite direction and was not surprised to see there was another.

The archer muttered under his breath. He had been thinking for a while that the best way for the saviors to approach Alexandria unseen was to do so on foot. Negan had just appeared, as Rosita had said, as a mere distraction to give his men time to attack in the most unexpected way.

"We can shoot them, we have them within range," Rosita said quietly.

"That'd only alert the rest—there must be way more…"

Then Daryl drew his knife and Rosita did the same, then he pointed with his head to the person to their right, for her to take care of him, while he would do the same with the one in front of them. Rosita nodded and started to move stealthily.

Daryl watched her for a few seconds, making sure she wasn't making too much noise, and then began to move toward the figure who stood, almost motionless, in front of him.

For a moment the archer forgot how to breathe; it was as if he feared that simple, involuntary act would be enough to betray him in the middle of that forest. He was convinced that there were many more saviors like that figure huddled there like a rock, probably waiting for orders.

His footsteps were slow and less precise than he could have wished, though he had managed to move a few feet unnoticed, but suddenly he heard something that made him stop—a sharp sound that tore the taciturn air surrounding them.

Daryl stood still, listening carefully, but not taking his eyes off the dark figure in front of him, who seemed to have lifted its back like a dog called by its owner.

Then he heard it again, this time closer—it was a whistle, a whistle he knew very well, because he had heard it that night in the clearing, in the same place where that damn bastard had taken Glenn's life.

Daryl took a deep breath, but he didn't have a second to mourn at that memory, because the other man—the one to his left—answered that strange call, whistling the same melody. And after that whistle came another, this time a few feet to his right. The archer felt his heart go completely wild in his chest. They were warning each other, he had no doubt.

The person in front of him, a man—he could finally tell—got up before the archer could think about moving forward to attack him. Daryl noticed that he held something in his hands, but he couldn't see what it was. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a smaller object. A lighter, he realized as soon as he lit it, and set the rag hanging out from the mouth of the bottle he held in his other hand, on fire.

Daryl stepped back unconsciously and saw with amazement, the different points of light that started to appear throughout the forest surrounding Alexandria, like a row of lights marking a hidden path in the middle of the night.

Quickly, the archer looked for Rosita—like him, the woman was watching the flames in shock. There were hundreds of them, like fiery wisps, illuminating the positions that the saviors had kept concealed until then.

Again, the archer took a step back and tried to warn Rosita to do the same—there were too many. The woman, however, seemed hypnotized, and kept her eyes fixed on those headlights that suddenly began to fly through the air, drawing an arc in the darkness as they sailed over Alexandria's walls.

The two watched with uneasiness the dance of lights that seemed to follow a rehearsed choreography—and listened to the explosions happening behind the walls.

The flames appeared soon after, as big columns that looked like fire giants. Then there were the screams, and shortly after, the sound of bullets filled the last piece of tranquility that had remained intact until that moment.

The man in front of him was about to throw his burning bottle over the walls, seeking the same fate as the rest, but Daryl didn't think for a second longer, and with an explosive rage, he jumped on him. The man uttered a cry of surprise, and tried to twist, to face this unexpected threat, but Daryl quickly plunged his knife under his chin.

However, this quick move was not enough to avoid drawing the attention of the others, and when Daryl raised his head, he saw the man to his left pointing his rifle at him. A shot rang out, forcing the archer to close his eyes, and for a moment he waited anxiously for the burning pain he had felt weeks ago on his shoulder—but it didn't come, and when he opened his eyes again, he saw the man was lying on the ground.

The archer turned quickly and found Rosita right behind him, her gun in the air pointing directly at the savior that could have ended his life. Behind her, the other man they had seen was also dead.

"We have to go!" the woman urged.

They took the weapons from the saviors, and ran out into the woods in hope of distracting anyone who might have noticed their presence. They changed directions several times; making sure no one was following them. Along the way, they met with several walkers, which they didn't even bother to kill. They just ran and ran until they finally had to stop to catch some air.

"They're attacking us… they're too many… what do we do now?" Rosita asked between breaths.

"We hafta go back—they need us."

"There are still too many."

"I know…"

At that moment Daryl's brain began firing away like a machine at full capacity. The archer rubbed his forehead as if that gesture was enough to stop the amalgam of thoughts that ran through his head, thoughts that weren't making any sense.

Daryl adjusted one of the rifles he'd just taken on his shoulder, and tried to look past the tree trunks that cut off his vision. The glow of the fire, the screams and the noise of the ammunition, were evident even from there.

"Let's go around and go behind the houses next to the church—it's the farthest area from the main door."

"They'll see us," Rosita lamented.

"We gonna try, okay?"

Rosita didn't answer, and the two of them started to run again, moving parallel to the walls. His eyes closed involuntarily with fear and anxiety, every time he heard an explosion or a desperate cry tearing the air. And yet, neither of them lowered the frenetic pace they had taken on.

However, they had to come to a sudden stop a few yards from the area where they intended to sneak into the community. In front of them, was a large group of saviors—at least twenty—prepared with their weapons. They were in front of the wall, watching the surroundings as if they were waiting for something or someone.

All of a sudden, they heard the heavy roar of an engine bursting into the already busy atmosphere that had taken over the community's usual, nocturnal calmness. The lights soon lit up the road, and within seconds, they saw a huge bulldozer rushing the walls.

"Fuckin' hell…" Daryl muttered.

Neither of them moved, aware that they could do nothing more than watch in horror as the blade of the vehicle toppled—with startling ease—some of the metal sheets that had protected them until that very moment.

" _Hijos de puta_ ," Rosita exclaimed.

Daryl didn't need to look at the woman; they both were already acting as if they were a reflection of the other. The two held their rifles high and fired blindly into the saviors still standing by the walls.

Many of them fell, though neither of the two bothered to keep track or check how many were still standing. They fired non-stop—they didn't even stop when some of them responded as they ran towards the walls, trying to get safe. They fired until they had no charge left.

The archer needed to pull the trigger several times, until he finally realized that the weapon he held in his hands no longer met his demands. Quickly, he threw it to the ground and ran down the slight slope that separated them from the crack now opened in the walls, and took another of the saviors' rifles. Beside him, Rosita did the same, and the two of them prepared, ready to go back to Alexandria and face whatever was waiting for them inside.

Across the walls, the community was the image of hell itself. There was fire everywhere; the ground burned, the trees burned, some of the houses burned. They could also hear the sound of bullets flying around them like the heavy rain of a summer storm. And the screams, of course, there were also the screams, the ones of rage and the ones of despair. But the worst thing was seeing them—all those bastards bursting into their home like an overflowing river, taking down everything that crossed their path.

Still, as long as he could stand and hold the rifle in both hands, Daryl was not going to give up. They would have to kill him to stop him; he was more than sure of that, and it looked like Rosita, who was running beside him, was feeling the same way.

They moved with agility through the streets and houses, killing every savior they could find. They aimed, fired, and attacked at a dizzying pace, as if they had been rehearsing that for months—getting rid of the weapons that no longer worked, and taking those that no longer had an owner.

Time seemed to stop and accelerate at the same time, until everything started to become blurry and confused. Daryl had the feeling that their efforts hadn't quite paid off, because saviors kept appearing everywhere. There were moments when he even had the feeling he was living in a dream—a macabre dream from which he wanted to wake up, but his legs and hands seemed to be stuck to the pavement, while he moved, breathless, and holding that rifle like it was an extension of his body.

And then everything seemed to stop—time stopped counting so abruptly that he really had to wonder if he was not living some kind of nightmare. He thought that as he watched with consternation a group of saviors dragging with them Rick, Michonne and Aaron. Daryl pointed his rifle in their direction, but his body came to a halt as he felt the burning steel pressing against the back of his neck.

"Throw the gun to the ground," he heard the low voice of a woman behind him.

Daryl turned his head enough to see Rosita drop her rifle—behind her, there was a man holding a gun to her head. Then the archer looked at the sky and was surprised to see that there were no stars above their heads and that the black color of the night gave way to the soft yellow shades of dawn. The hours had passed without him being conscious of it, and now he had the feeling that they had just been wasting their time.

"Drop the fucking rifle!" the woman repeated, impatiently.

The archer threw the weapon, which was quickly picked up by another savior he hadn't even seen approach them. Then, the same man began to search him for more weapons. He took off the gun he wore and also Paul's knife. The man stared at it for a few seconds, then put it on his belt, and grabbed Daryl by the arm, forcing him to walk beside him. The archer wanted to fight, but the woman with the rifle followed them closely.

As they walked, Daryl watched in amazement everything around him. That idyllic community, with perfect houses, looked now like the real picture of a war. Homes burned and shattered, corpses every few feet—he recognized some of those faces, people who had lived there hoping to start a new life in that strange new world, and suddenly he felt guilty for not knowing the names of most of them.

Those thoughts disappeared when the man holding his arm pushed him, hard, making him hit someone.

"You're okay?" He heard Tara's trembling voice.

Daryl looked at her, the woman had a strong bruise on her forehead and a broken lip, but besides that and the obvious panic reflected in her eyes, she seemed to be fine.

Then he looked around. They were in the street in front of the Monroes' house, surrounded by saviors. There, on one side, were Rick, Michonne, Carl, Aaron and Eugene; on the other were Sasha, Tara, Abraham, and now he and Rosita. With them, were other members from Alexandria, three women and a man whose names he couldn't remember.

The archer would have wanted to have at least a second to try to understand what was going on, because for a moment, he felt that his mind was far away from there—he felt as if none of this was really happening, but then Negan appeared. That cocky son of a bitch stood before them as if he was a fucking rock star. He had a cut on his cheek, but that didn't seem to quench his air of superiority, as he walked holding the bat against his right shoulder.

Daryl closed his eyes, trying to block out the images of that night in the clearing that returned vividly to his head. The sound of flesh and broken bones, as that bastard struck repeatedly, taking Glenn's life with him.

For a moment the archer thought he would burst into tears for his friend, and for what he knew was coming. He knew that that night was going to repeat itself, even though at that very moment the sun was starting to shine over their heads. They were going to lose someone again, and he remembered the words he had spoken to Aaron—he was not afraid to die; he was afraid of seeing others go, and most of the people he loved were right there.

"Well, well, well," Negan said as he walked past them all, "I'm going to be honest with you, Rick, you've got more guts than I thought, but you've also made it clear that you're an ignorant fool. Things didn't have to be like this, Rick, people didn't have to keep dying—because after all, that damages me, but it also damages you. Things would've been much easier if you had bothered to listen to me, and I thought you did, Rick—I thought that night I'd made things very clear, but now I see I was wrong." Negan approached Rick, standing only a few inches from him, his voice lowering and becoming much more serious and dark: "I'm afraid, Rick, that I'm going to have to explain this again."

Daryl felt his chest rise and fall frantically, inhaling deeply through his nose. He looked around and what he saw only made his heart shudder. The shaken expressions of his friends—his family—aware of what was going to happen, while impotence ran through their veins, conscious that there was nothing they could do to prevent it. All those men, weapons poised as they stood there, had them helpless like a stupid flock of sheep surrounded by a pack of wolves.

Negan pulled away from Rick and turned his back at them for a moment, rubbing his eyes briskly.

"You know what's the most ironic thing of all this, Rick?" He said turning to look at them again, "It's having to watch all your faces, now; and see the panic and horror in them—it's funny because, thinking about it and even after what happened here tonight, your group has still killed more people than mine. You can't deny that—and yet we're still in this situation because you really think I'm the bad guy." Negan approached Rick again, who was again showing that lost look that Daryl had had the misfortune to witness the same night that Glenn had died. "This doesn't make any sense, Rick, you'll have to agree with me on that. So, maybe you need me to give you a better reason to look at me the way you're looking at me right now."

Daryl tried to catch his breath, his hands were shaking. He wanted to jump on him, he wanted to stop him, he wanted to break his jaw to stop him from talking, but he knew that would only make things worse, and that sense of uselessness was killing him.

"Get in line and on your knees," Negan announced then.

Not even he was able to suppress the drowned and desperate moan that escaped his lips, and that was accompanied by the rest of his friends.

The archer turned in a vague and useless attempt to stop this, but Negan's men approached them, hitting some on the legs, to force them to kneel.

Then Negan began to walk, waving the barbed-wire-wrapped bat in front of their noses.

"I'm going to be generous with you, Rick," he added, "because I really want you to understand that this would be much easier if you collaborated, instead of planning to stab me in the back, asking for help from those useless fuckers from the Hilltop—I'm going to let you choose the person that will meet Lucille today. And before you refuse," he said raising a hand in the air, "let me make it clear that this is not a suggestion, nor an option—I'm giving you a real opportunity that I want you to think about carefully, Rick—because even if you see me smiling, the truth's that I'm fucking pissed off with you, right now. And if you make me choose the person, this time I'll go for what's going to hurt you the most, and I assure you I'm not going to think twice, Rick."

Negan took the sheriff's hat that Carl was wearing, put it on his head, and then crouched in front of Rick. His friend's skin had turned pale as snow, his tear-filled eyes staring back and forth, completely lost and stunned; one hand resting on his thigh and the other pressed on his chest.

"How do I look?" He asked slyly, "Do I look like the fucking boss or do I not look like the fucking boss? Because that's what you've always believed, didn't you, Rick? You've always believed that you were the fucking boss, and now that I've proved you wrong, you don't know what to do or say."

Daryl closed his eyes in a futile attempt to ignore the sobs of the people around him, even though he himself felt a tearing knot strangling his throat.

"We don't have all day, Rick." Negan stood up and tossed the hat to the ground.

Rick leaned forward, placing his palms on the road surface. Daryl could hear his erratic breathing even from where he was kneeling.

"Come on, Rick, give me a name. Don't fool yourself, I'm pretty sure you don't like some of these fuckers, so it should be easy—say a name."

"I can't…" he cried in a barely perceptible whisper, and as he shook his head from side to side.

"Of course you can. Come on, Rick, don't do this to me, don't make me choose," Negan said.

"No—no…"

The sobs turned to tears—neither of them suppressing those emotions anymore.

Daryl closed his eyes again; the fight to breathe was getting harder. The tears, no longer held in check, streamed down his cheeks. He didn't want to see that, he didn't want to hear that, he didn't want to have to suffer something like that again. He didn't mind dying, he repeated to himself, over and over—he didn't mind dying, not anymore; he only wanted the suffering to end as soon as possible, for him and for all of them.

Then, he thought about Paul, about how he would react, how he would take it all. Daryl let out a muffled moan, anguish wound around his chest, squeezing so tightly he could barely find the strength to breathe. His eyes clouded for an instant, he was not sure if it was because of the tears or because his judgment was definitely fading away.

The archer opened his eyes again, and looked at Rick, who was still leaning forward unable to give an answer.

"Rick, you've already made me waste a lot of time and men, today," Negan insisted, "I'll give you a minute. I want a name, Rick."

"Rick…" Daryl managed to stammer, "Rick, look at me…"

Negan fixed his eyes on Daryl as Rick tightened his eyes and kept moving his head from side to side.

"Rick…" the archer repeated.

Daryl ignored the fact that Negan was walking now in his direction, and didn't look away from his friend, who was completely stunned as he tried to ignore his voice.

"Rick!"

"Shut up!" Negan said, "Is your name Rick? No, right? No one else speaks, just him—and I'm still waiting for a fucking name, Rick!"

"I can't!" Rick said between sobs.

"Rick…" Negan warned, his voice growing darker and darker.

"Say it, Rick, damn it!" Daryl exclaimed.

Negan turned toward him, and with a quick movement, he struck the archer's face with the handle of the bat. Daryl fell to the ground feeling a sharp pain in his chin; around him the desperate cries filled the air.

"Stop!" He heard Rick scream.

But Daryl didn't have time to react; he noticed some hands grabbing his clothes and lifting him off the ground, forcing him on his knees again. When the archer opened his eyes, Negan was inches from his face.

"Don't make me make a choice of my own," he warned hoarsely, then let go of him and rose again. "It's been a minute, Rick, and I'm— "

A sudden commotion outside the group of people, diverted everyone's attention. A few feet from there three saviors appeared dragging someone with them. Others stepped aside to let them pass, and when they were close enough, they pushed the man to the ground.

"The fuck is this?" Negan asked, irritated by the interruption.

"He was snooping around the walls."

Two of the saviors blocked his vision, so Daryl leaned his head slightly to try to identify the intruder. He couldn't see his face, but his heart stopped beating as soon as he noticed his clothes. He was not wearing his coat, but he was sure he would be able to recognize those pants and boots a mile away. His breathing became more agitated and heavy, as something slipped from his lips without him being able to stop it, only realizing what he had uttered when he heard it in his own ears as a simple breath:

"Paul?"


	28. Chapter 28

"Why is he here? Why have you brought him here?" Negan asked impatiently.

"He didn't resist and he wasn't armed," replied one of the saviors, a tall strapping man with shaven hair.

Daryl struggled to breathe as he silently begged for one of those men to step aside and let him see Paul—see his face, and check that he was okay, but suddenly the words of that man echoed in his ears. He had been unarmed and he hadn't resisted them. He knew that Paul would never seek a confrontation if it was not necessary, he had seen it with his own eyes, but given the circumstances he was surprised that the scout not only had appeared there without protection, but also had allowed himself to be caught so easily.

"Be careful," warned a voice that hadn't spoken out until then.

When Daryl turned, he saw that Vulture bastard taking a step forward. Negan looked at him questioningly and clearly waited for an explanation.

"He's from Hilltop," Vulture replied in a trembling voice that Daryl hadn't heard from him before. "One day, we met with him and that other guy on the road," he said, pointing to Daryl. "Maybe Gregory didn't tell us the whole truth."

One of the men blocking his vision stepped aside to look at him. Everyone had their eyes on the archer now, but Daryl could only look at Paul. He could only look at those crystalline eyes that looked back at him strangely. Paul seemed uneasy but at the same time there was a significant calm radiating from him, as if he wasn't in fear for his own life, instead, only worried about all of them—about him.

Daryl tried to soften that dismayed look crawling on every inch of his face and convince him that he was okay, but he couldn't do it. He was scared, he was _fucking_ scared. He was worried for all of them and his heart tightened, more and more, every time he blinked and realized that it was not his imagination; Paul was right there, on the ground, surrounded by all those armed men, with nothing to defend himself.

For a moment, his eyes traveled from the scout to Negan when he sensed that he was moving. The man had wrinkled his forehead deeply, as if he hadn't understood Vulture's words.

"Do you really think that I bought that coward blowhard piece of shit's words, for one fucking minute?" Negan replied, visibly offended and annoyed.

Vulture looked down and Daryl shook his head. He still couldn't understand how just one man was able to exercise such power over all these people.

He was not a fool, though; he was convinced that many of them followed him out of sheer laziness. After all, it was very easy for them to settle into the lifestyle they commanded, and name themselves masters and lords of all they pleased. He could see it, he could see that ambition and the longing for more, much more, reflected in those faces, but he also saw fear and anguish in some of them. He saw it in Vulture, who showed himself to be no more than another smarmy cocksucker, whose only wish was to impress that man that he probably, deep down, hated almost as much as they did.

Daryl looked around and saw that Rick and the rest watched the scene with the same astonishment as he did. Then he rested his eyes on Paul again, who was still looking at him with the same intensity, and Daryl cursed inwardly for not being able to read him. He knew Paul was trying to tell him something but he was so stunned and overwhelmed by the whole situation that all he wanted was to close his eyes hoping that, by the time he opened them, everything would be over.

"I think he's the one who's been in charge of Hilltop lately, not Gregory," Vulture said. "I think it's possible that he was planning—"

Negan raised a hand in the air to keep him from talking and sighed heavily, "He's not the leader of Hilltop, but acts as the leader of Hilltop…"

"He said Gregory was dead—"

"So he lied to you."

"No—I—I knew he was not telling me the truth but—"

"But you let him lie to you."

Suddenly Vulture fell speechless, so Negan continued: "I have to ask you, Vulture, weren't you the one in charge of overseeing everything about Hilltop? Wasn't it you who had been organizing a master plan to punish them for breaking the deal we had with them?" he asked, though he kept talking, not letting Vulture reply. "Why is he still alive?"

Vulture blinked several times, as Daryl struggled to get more air into his lungs.

"He…" Vulture mumbled, his voice losing more and more strength, "he's… a good fighter."

Negan leaned his head back, as if his words had taken him by surprise. "He's a good fighter…" Negan repeated.

Then the man approached Paul and crouched in front of him, studying him closely. _Too close_. Daryl leaned forward, ready to act—his heart, pumping with an unusual fury, seemed to be about to erase any trace of sanity that might still work in his head.

"Is he a better fighter than you?" Negan asked with a chilling calm and without taking his eyes off the scout, who hadn't moved a single muscle.

"What?" Vulture muttered.

"Is he a better fighter than you?" he repeated again, getting up, "Because you know that I like to have the best–qualified people on my team. We can't do what we do, be the great community we are, if I can't have the best men working for me—so, I'm going to ask you the question again, Vulture: Is he a better fighter than you?"

Vulture swallowed, and in an almost imperceptible gesture, he looked at Paul and then at the rest of the people around them. Then he straightened his back.

"No," he replied, less firmness in his voice than he probably would've wanted.

Negan stared at him for a few seconds and a huge smile crossed his face, "Of course not!" he said, striking the man's chest with camaraderie. "That's why you're on my team, Vulture, that's why I let you be in charge of a community like Hilltop: because I trust you and your abilities—however," he added quickly, his voice growing darker and the sarcasm in his words much more evident, "I look at those baby blues and I see no threat, Vulture—so, I can't help but wonder, _again_ , why the fuck is he still alive? Or is it that I've been wrong about you, Vulture."

"No…" he replied nervously.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes…"

"Well, since you know that otherwise I would be greatly disappointed, and I'm already quite disenchanted by this situation that we're in here today—let me ask you one more question, my dear friend: if you had a time machine, where would you like to travel?"

Even Daryl frowned at that random question—meanwhile, Vulture stammered, clearly confused.

"I would like to travel to Ancient Rome," Negan replied, as if he wasn't expecting an answer from the other man, "you know, go to the Coliseum to watch those spectacular events: men against beasts, men against men. All that blood and sweat, while they fight until only one of them remains alive."

Negan looked around, "Well, we don't have the Coliseum, but we do have the audience… come on!" he inquired with mad enthusiasm, "show us those skills, Vulture, show this group of fuckers what the saviors are capable of."

Negan stepped away from them, crossing one leg in front of the other, expectantly, as he leaned on the bat like it was a cane.

The other men, those who had captured Paul, did the same, leaving the scout and Vulture alone in the middle.

Daryl watched Paul, who looked as confused as everyone else did, but he still got up off the ground. The archer shifted slightly, ready to jump into that makeshift ring but he felt a hand on his arm—Tara, who was begging with her eyes for him to keep quiet where he was.

Vulture looked at Paul and then at Negan, nervously changing his posture.

"Do you want us to fight?" the man asked, no longer hiding his trembling voice.

"You know what? I'm starting to think that I'm not explaining myself properly. Maybe that's why we're here today, maybe I didn't make it clear enough for Rick that night, nor am I doing it for you now," he said as he walked back toward Vulture. "I'm going to confess to you one thing—I don't know how to recognize a good fighter just by looking at him, Vulture, but I can identify a liar just seconds after he starts spitting shit out of his mouth, and you've been lying to my fucking face for a while now. And I'm sure you know that I don't like that kind of shit, right?"

Negan turned to look at all of them, to watch that line of people kneeling and that he seemed to have forgotten about for a moment.

"You know what? I'm already bored of this whole situation," then he started to walk toward them, with quick, firm steps, "and it's been at least fifteen minutes, Rick, and you haven't given me a fucking name…"

Negan raised the bat in the air, and the panic-stricken cries accompanied that gesture that was moving toward Carl with speed and precision.

Daryl wouldn't have been able to explain what happened next, he had the feeling that he had blinked just once—an involuntary act that nevertheless seemed to have been enough for the archer to miss seeing what was going on.

He saw the bat slip from Negan's hands. He also saw Negan stagger and fall to the ground with a growl of surprise, and all of a sudden, Paul was on top of him, pressing his own gun against his forehead.

The saviors had been slow to react almost as much as he had, clearly surprised by that sudden and unexpected turn of events, but in only a few seconds, they were all clutching their heavy weapons, and had them trained on Paul.

Daryl felt his muscles numb. He wanted to say something, he wanted to tell Paul to stop what he was doing, but it was too late now, and he knew the words wouldn't have come out of his mouth even if he had tried.

Everyone around him seemed to have lost their breath. Rick was hugging Carl, aware of what would have happened, while the tears fell like rain from his eyes. Tears that accompanied the sobbing of everyone else.

Negan, however, looked more surprised than annoyed. "Wow, maybe the fucker was telling the truth," he said, trying to sound convincing, as if he wanted to make them believe that, despite the circumstances, he still was in control of the situation.

"Yeah… I know how to fight and I also know how to use a gun," Paul replied.

"Have you seen all those men, boy? They'll kill you."

"I don't care, because I can assure you that you'll be coming with me."

Those words had sounded so firm and concise that for a moment Daryl wanted to shout at him to move away.

"Tell them to lay down their weapons," Paul continued.

Negan seemed to hesitate for a moment, "I can't do that."

"Then, I guess you should know that all the men you had out there keeping watch are dead."

For the first time since Daryl had the misfortune to know this lunatic bastard, his face contracted in an expression of disbelief and uneasiness.

"Tell them to lay down their weapons," Paul repeated again.

Negan hesitated, for what seemed like minutes, but then he opened his mouth, though words didn't come out right—he stammered something the archer was not able to hear and then pressed his lips back into a thin line.

"Tell them to lay down their weapons," Paul insisted, pressing the gun against his forehead.

"Even if you kill me, you won't win this war," Negan said finally.

And that was the last thing Daryl could hear before a shot went off. Though, in fact, the last thing he thought he had heard was Paul's words, something that had sounded like «that's yet to be seen». However, the archer was not sure because, again, everything started to move at a frenzied pace—and Daryl was not able to understand what was really happening.

After the first shot he heard more, accompanied by screams that saturated the air with consternation and fear. He saw the saviors, two or three, fall to the ground like inanimate dolls. He saw the blood. Then everyone started to scatter. Even more shots sounded, and the archer was not sure where they were coming from. He also heard his name, a shriek. A woman. Maybe it was Tara, or Rosita, or Michonne. His brain was still unable to register anything what was going on. Everything got into a messy chaos, just like a blurred film.

Then some hands grabbed at his clothes, forcing him to his feet, and he saw those blue eyes as clear as water staring at him. The first thing that crossed his mind, as he realized he was there, in front of him, was how much he would have liked to smile, but his body didn't react because of the anxiety he saw in Paul's eyes.

Then he felt something on his chest, and when he looked down, he saw that Paul was giving him a rifle, one that he had probably taken from the saviors who now were laying lifeless on the ground.

They ran—Daryl was not even aware of the moment his legs had started to move, but he was running. The two of them were, and they ran until they managed to shelter behind the corner of one of the houses. And it was at that moment, when the archer's back hit the wood facing, when suddenly his brain regained much of its function. He felt his quick breathing, the painful pumping of his heart against his chest, the sweat running down his forehead and the cold feeling of the weapon he held in his hands.

He looked around and saw Paul. He looked at him again with a strange sense of relief and distress, as if he couldn't believe he was right there, even though Paul was not paying him any attention. The scout was checking that the gun in his hands was loaded. He cursed something and then turned to look at him.

"You good?" he asked.

At first, Daryl didn't know what to answer, and even when he did, his voice sounded distant, as if it was someone else speaking. "What?"

Paul moved to look at him better, "Are you okay?" he asked again.

A bullet struck one of the walls protecting them, and the two of them bent down covering their heads.

"Fuck!"

"What the fuck is goin' on?" the archer then snapped.

Paul frowned and looked at him as if that was the most stupid question in the world. "They're here… The Kingdom and Hilltop are here."

Daryl closed his eyes for a moment. _Of course_ , what else could it be? He told himself. If Paul was there, they were there. They had arrived in two days as he had promised. They were here to help them; they were here to put an end to this situation, once and for all.

The archer opened his eyes again and saw that Paul had moved. He peered carefully, watching all the action on the other side, while probably figuring out the best moment to get out of their hiding place and join the fight. And he was about to do it, Daryl saw him move one leg, ready to run, but without even thinking about it, he reached out a hand and grabbed his vest to stop him. Paul turned immediately, looking at him again as if he had lost his head completely.

"Damn, you just got here and you're ready to go out there to get shot," Daryl said, his voice sounding tense, then he took a deep breath. "You're the craziest bastard I've ever met, Paul Monroe."

The scout's gaze darkened for a moment, though it was not rage but consternation what Daryl saw in his eyes. Paul moved to kneel in front of him; the archer was still sitting on the ground, feeling so heavy that for a second he thought he was not going to be able to get up.

"We have to end this, Daryl," Paul said in such a soft tone that it had been almost impossible to hear him over all the commotion around them. Then he caressed his cheek with one of his gloved hands. "We'll be fine; we can do it—I trust you, please trust me."

Those were the same words he had used shortly before venturing into the savior's settlement, and Daryl felt the same way he had felt that night, and what he had felt two hours later when the damned cat-charming hippie pothead hadn't appeared there as he had said he would. And he remembered what happened next, the cabin, the fire, the saviors, the kiss… everything had changed so much since then.

"Daryl…"

The archer was forced to come back to the present. Paul was right, they had to end this shit and that was the best moment to do so. They had to go out there and fight.

"Yeah… I trust you," he said in a barely perceptible voice.

The corner of Paul's lips curled timidly, and for a moment Daryl would've sworn the scout was about to lay his lips on his, but then there was a shot that shook him completely. His ears ringed in response to that intense, unexpected noise. Then he noticed that Paul had his right arm in the air and the smoke was coming out of the gun he held tightly—only a few feet from them, a man was laying on the ground now.

Paul got up and ran toward him. He checked that he was dead, took off his rifle and a pair of knives, and pierced his temple with one of them, making sure, he wouldn't rise again—after that he went back to Daryl.

Finally moving, the archer tightly grasped the weapon he held in his hands and loaded it, then looked at Paul, who was by his side with his eyes on him.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Ready," Daryl replied.

As soon as they started to move again, Daryl felt the adrenaline grip him like the invading roots of a vine. His body reacted even before his mind could give the orders. He shot and struck with a precision he was barely aware of, it was like watching the scene from a perspective that was not his, as if he was only a spectator, despite feeling in his body the heat of the blows he received and that he was not able to avoid.

By his side, Paul moved nimbly, and like him, he fired and beat non-stop, though he did with astounding ease, dodging quickly, avoiding any blow that was about to knock him down.

A few minutes passed when suddenly, the two of them stopped dead. There, among the rarefied crowd, they saw Vulture. The man turned quickly, as if he could feel their eyes on him, and fixed his gaze on them. Daryl loaded his weapon without thinking twice, ready to shoot, but Vulture began to run and before he could stop him, Paul went after him.

"Paul!"

The archer wanted to follow them, but he received a strong blow on his back that made him fall to the ground, though he managed to stir just in time to see a woman jump on him. She was only armed with a knife, but she fought energetically to sink it on him. She tried to do it twice, once on his chest and again at his neck. Daryl struggled with her until he managed to take one of the guns he had taken from another savior and pulled the trigger. He felt the blood splash on his face even before the woman fell on him like a heavy rock.

It took Daryl a few seconds to react until he finally pushed her off, then he took the knife and made sure she would never wake up again.

When he got up, he took a quick look around him. There was fire in some areas, the noise of the bullets became increasingly deafening, people ran from side to side, hiding, shooting, fighting… everything happened at a deranged pace, and he felt himself move amongst that scattered crowd, while he felt his muscles twitch each time he pulled the trigger or brandished his knife.

He ran and fought almost without being conscious of doing so. He saw people—his people—through all the chaos. He saw Rosita, he saw Tara, he saw Aaron and Rick and Michonne. He saw them fighting as he was. He saw the people from The Kingdom; he could tell it was them because of the clothes they wore. He also saw some of the guys from Hilltop—he saw Kal, Eduardo and Mandy. And among all of them he also saw the saviors, he saw them fight to regain the control of a situation that had gotten out of hand, and he could see in their expressions a sense of defeat that they probably hadn't felt for a long time.

Then there were the walkers who had started to appear there. Many were just a memory of those who, a few hours ago, had come with the intention of destroying everything. Now, they wandered like ghosts in the midst of a war they had already lost, in which they were taking part without even being aware of it, while taking with them some of their own people.

Time continued to run at the same furious rate as they did, and like a song that ends, the noise diminished its intensity almost at the same time that the sun began to disappear in the horizon.

Suddenly, everything was over. The bullets stopped whistling and the artillery stopped.

When Daryl took the knife off one of the walkers that had crossed his path, he looked up and realized that the silence had taken over Alexandria. A strange silence that only reflected the impotence and surprise of a defeat and a victory that no one seemed to have expected.

When the archer looked around, he had to blink several times to understand the image in front of him was real, and not the result of his convulsive imagination. The saviors, those who were still standing, raised their hands in the air and threw their weapons to the ground—a gesture for which they were clearly not prepared, while they were watched over by all those who had come there, not only to help Alexandria, but also to free themselves from an unjust situation that none of them deserved.

Daryl walked among the crowd and stopped in front of the larger group of people that had gathered there. In the middle was Negan, and for the first time—and surely to his own consternation—he was the one kneeling. Rick was in front of him; in one hand, he held a revolver, in the other that fucking bat. Not far from there was the Crazy King who looked attentively as Rick approached Negan with slow step.

"All right, Rick," he said, lifting his chin, trying to show some of that little pride he still had, "I have to admit, you've won—what are you going to do now, kill me?"

It took Rick a few seconds to answer. His friend seemed to be struggling against the urge to use that bat he held in one hand, and kill Negan as he had killed Glenn, but Rick closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Killing you would be too easy, and right now all I want is to see you suffer, even if only a small part, what we've suffered."

Negan ducked his head and shook it. "Do you realize how over the top all this drama is? I've only killed a man, Rick—while you, _my friend_ , probably wouldn't be able to count all those lives you've taken away from me."

"Those lives… Did you really care for them? Did you even know their names?" Rick responded gravely. "I bet you didn't know who they were or where they came from; they were just your lackeys—that man you killed that night meant more to us than all those lives you claim to have lost—Negan only cares about Negan, and with a bit of luck, all these people still standing, will realize that. Now they're free and can start to live again. You, on the contrary, will die, maybe not today, not tomorrow, but you will, while you rot in a cell from which you will never come out."

Negan tried to draw a smile on his face, though it was obvious that all that conviction and confidence he had shown before, had disappeared.

"It's the sheriff who's talking, huh? You really think you're better, right? Do you really think you've done things better than I did, Rick?"

"No… no," Rick replied, shaking his head, "I'm not better than you, and I've made difficult decisions that I regret, but I assure you that I did it to protect my people—my family. You might have been surrounded by hundreds of people who kneeled at your feet, but sooner or later you will realize that in the end you're alone."

Negan's face contracted at those last words, and the ex-sheriff took that moment to put some handcuffs on him and to take him out of there.

There were cheers among those present, and Daryl smiled, even though it was a strange smile full of relief and sadness at the same time. After all, even after what they had achieved that day, it saddened him to remember what they had lost along the way.

The archer moved away from the crowd, he needed space to catch some air, but he saw Tara, not far from were he was, half sitting on the ground, while she put a hand to her face. Daryl ran to her.

"Tara, you okay? You hurt?" he asked quickly.

The woman pushed her hand away and looked up. Her eyes were filled with tears, but a smile formed on her lips, "Yeah…" she said between sobs, "it's just—I can't believe this is finally over."

Daryl helped her up from the ground and the two melted into an intense, heartfelt embrace. They both cried, letting all the emotions flow uncontrollably. Everything that they had lived during those months of struggle and lost was now reflected in those tears.

"S'over… s'over," the archer repeated over and over again.

When they moved away, Daryl saw Aaron approaching them. The man had some cuts on his face, and he wore a hand wrapped in a rag that was covered in blood, but like Tara, he managed to draw a smile on his face, and when he got close, the two friends embraced with force.

"I'm glad to see you're okay," Aaron whispered, trying to control the emotion in his voice.

"Me too."

Then Aaron wrapped his arms around Tara, and Daryl watched them, unable to forget what they had gone through, even before the war had really exploded. And in that moment he felt a sharp pressure on his chest. He looked around, scanning vividly with his eyes, looking among all those faces, most of them unknown— but he didn't see him. He hadn't seen Paul since he had run after Vulture.

"Daryl…"

The archer heard Aaron's voice behind him, but he couldn't stop peering through the crowd, but all those faces were just like faceless mannequins for him now.

"Daryl…"

This time it was Tara who seemed to be trying to catch his attention. The woman touched his arm, and Daryl turned to look at her, surprised, as if for a moment he would have thought that no one else was there with him.

"Have you seen him? Have you seen Paul?"

Both Tara and Aaron looked around, in a completely involuntary and useless act—it was obvious that they didn't know where he was.

Daryl let out an exasperated sigh and began to move among the people, trying to find that damned cat-charming hippie pothead, while cursing to himself because of the fucking crazy little man's inopportuneness, always doing things his own way. Why couldn't he be there like everyone else?

Daryl watched, looked and scanned among all those faces that he found in his path, but hardly noticed them because he knew he would be able to recognize Paul with just touching him.

His anxiety began to bubble in his veins with the passing seconds, as he continued to walk between all those people from Hilltop and The Kingdom, who stood firm while guarding the saviors.

"Have you seen Pa—Jesus around here?" he asked one of the Crazy King's men.

"Jesus? No, haven't seen him," he replied.

"You?" he asked another, who was right next to him.

The guy looked at both sides, a gesture that—for some reason—irritated Daryl, and then shook his head.

The archer kept searching and asking but, to his dismay, he received only negative answers. His heart was beating erratically as he tried to find his breath.

"Are you looking for Jesus?"

Daryl stopped suddenly and turned looking for that voice that had emerged almost like a ghost. He met a tall woman with hair as black as the night before them.

"Have you seen him?" Daryl's voice reflected deep anxiety.

"Not for a while, but the last time I saw him, he was running after a man in that direction," she said, pointing to the church.

Daryl didn't find the words to thank the woman; he simply started to walk even before his brain had time to react. However, his steps became increasingly slow and hesitant as he approached the building.

The door was ajar, the archer didn't open it at first, he stopped right in front of it and listened carefully in case there might be something or someone on the other side ready to attack him. However, he only perceived a silence that managed to send a shiver through his body.

He needed to calm down, he told himself, maybe Paul had left, maybe he was out of Alexandria, maybe he had followed someone, some savior who had escaped—Vulture.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to open the door. He did it slowly, though that didn't stop the hinges from cracking under the movement of his hand. The archer let out the breath he had just taken when he saw the corpse in the middle of the aisle. He was only a few steps away from the entrance. It was Vulture.

Daryl came in carefully, looking in all directions. It was not a very big building, just an open floor, and at first glance he saw no one else. He approached the man's lifeless body with slow steps—he had wanted to see him dead more than once, and now that he was right in front of him, he could only feel the fury with which his heart throbbed.

He reached down as soon as he was close enough, and noticed the dark-red stain on his chest—a shot, and most likely the cause of his death. However, the archer couldn't ignore the knife driven into his head. The man had his eyes open, and in them he saw that same opaque and lost look that he had become so used to see on the walkers.

Daryl closed his eyes, not wanting to think of any of the things that crossed his mind. If Paul had killed Vulture with a shot, why hadn't he used the knife before the man woke up again? He knew Paul wouldn't have waited, it made no sense. Maybe someone else would have done it, but Daryl shook off that idea from his head as he let out an exasperated grunt.

He looked around again, and as if he hadn't seen it before, he stared at the blood on the blue carpet. There was a big spot not far from Vulture, and from there it seemed to slide along the aisle, as if the person had crawled trying to get out of there. However, the other door, the one to his left, was closed.

Daryl felt his own blood freeze in his veins, and again he forced himself to close his eyes and try to be rational for once, but his heart began beating violently and his breathing became increasingly irregular.

He took the knife that Vulture had stuck to his skull, unable to draw his own. Then he got up and began to walk slowly—largely because of the uncontrollable trembling that had seized his whole body. The archer had the feeling that he was about to fall to the floor with every step he took, but he kept moving forward.

As he approached the altar, he could hear a slow, difficult breath. Daryl had to wonder if it was not his own, but then he saw him, sitting on the floor behind one of the benches, half stooped. His head was crouched, but he lifted it as soon as he felt his presence, while Daryl couldn't look away from the blood that stained his clothes. Paul had opened his vest, and the shirt he wore had turned almost black around his left side.

"He… shot me…" Paul said, breaking the heavy silence. His voice reached his ears in barely an agitated wail.

"Fuck…"

Daryl ran to crouch beside him, and immediately rested his hand over Paul's to put more pressure on the wound. The scout groaned in pain, and Daryl felt his throat close.

"You'll be fine, Paul, you'll be fine. We gonna take you to Hilltop. C'mon, you hafta get up, we hafta get ya out of here."

His voice and his hands trembled, while with one he pressed the wound, and with the other stroked Paul's pale face, staining him unintentionally with that red liquid that seemed to be everywhere. "You hafta get up," the archer repeated, the tears leaving his eyes.

"I can't…"

His voice still sounded soft and tremulous. He was also crying, though he ducked his head trying to avoid Daryl's gaze, as if he was ashamed that the archer had seen him like this, but Daryl forced him to look at him.

"Hey… hey… look at me."

"I'm sorry…" he said then.

"Shut up, for fuck's sake, Paul—we gotta get you out of here, you gotta get up, c'mon—I'm gonna help you…"

"I can't…"

"Paul… fuckin' hell…"

Daryl got up quickly, reluctant to leave him, but finally ran out of the church looking for help. Many responded to his anguished call, though the first to appear there were Aaron and Tara.

"Shit," Tara murmured, crouching beside him and almost instinctively, just as Daryl had done, she put a hand over Paul's to press the wound, "how long has he been like this?"

"Jus'… I jus' found him," the words were barely out of Daryl's mouth.

"Fucking—okay, okay," the woman continued, shaking her head as if that would help her think better, "Daryl, you press the wound. We need a stretcher, or… a board or something to lay him on."

"What's going on?"

Daryl couldn't turn to look, but he recognized that voice as the Crazy King's, and within a second the man appeared before them, his eyes opening with surprise, dismay and concern at the same time.

"The Kingdom has two good doctors," he said hastily.

"The Kingdom is too far away, we have to take him to Hilltop," Tara replied.

"Hilltop is also very far away…"

"We have no choice."

"Damn it! What are you all looking at? Go find a fucking car!" Aaron shouted.

"Aaron, you take care of that! I will go get Rosita and grab some medical supplies. Don't fucking stay there man, move!", Tara ordered. "Daryl, continue pressing, okay?"

As they discussed, Daryl listened to the conversation as if it was taking place far away. All he could do at that moment was to press his hand against Paul's, while he felt his slow, erratic breathing under his touch. The scout had leaned his head, resting it lightly on his shoulder.

"Don't fall asleep, Paul, don't fall asleep…" he repeated softly over and over again.

And all of a sudden they were in a car. Daryl didn't know how the hell they got in there, everything was happening in front of him like he was not part of anything, as if he was just a ghost, an invisible entity, watching what was happening from a distance.

He closed his eyes and for a second recalled the moment when some men from The Kingdom had appeared there, followed by Rick, carrying with them a wooden board. Soon after they had been moving down the aisle. He still had been glued to Paul, his hand on his side pressing hard, as they had walked as fast as they could toward the exit. Then he had seen the van, the one in which they were now, in the back. Aaron was driving despite his injured hand. Rosita and Tara had claimed each of Paul's arms; both had put big cannulas into the crooks of his arms and had attached the tubes of bottles of fluids to them. Additionally they had put a tube across his face and around his ears, its short ends in the middle inserted into his nostrils, providing oxygen. Daryl was sitting on the floor, back facing the front of the car—one hand now held a towel someone had given him, the other caressed Paul's cheek and forehead, pushing away those sweat-soaked strands that clung to his skin. His face had turned a color that Daryl wouldn't dare to describe. Meanwhile, Tara and Rosita held the bottles of fluids as high as they could, occasionally checking Paul's pulse, blood pressure and body temperature, making sure he wasn't too cold, tucking the blankets tighter around him and telling Aaron to turn up the heat in the car.

Daryl gave a slight jump as he felt a hand on his back—it was Tara. The woman tried to give him a reassuring smile, but the corner of her lips only trembled, and Tara looked away, as if that gesture was enough to hide that she was crying just as he was.

The archer looked back at Paul, and his breath froze when he realized he had closed his eyes.

"Hey, hey," he said, tapping his cheek softly, "C'mon, Paul, don't fall asleep."

The scout opened his eyes again; though it was obvious that he was having a hard time doing it.

He hadn't spoken for a while, only to say that he was cold, and Daryl was convinced that had happened before they got into the van. Since then, however, he hadn't uttered a single word, not even a moan of pain, or the slight breath of a cry that accompanied those tears that occasionally slipped from his eyes. Nothing. It was as if he had become a porcelain figure about to fall apart.

Daryl forced himself to breathe and remain calm, but he was unable to do so. He couldn't do it while he saw how hard it was for Paul to keep those crystalline eyes open—he couldn't do it as he felt his breathing becoming heavier and slower.

The archer bit his lips to avoid the anguished sobbing that gripped his throat, as the tears clouded his sight again.

"Don't do this to me, Paul… don't do this to me—you'll be okay, c'mon, don't fall asleep… Paul, don't do this to me… not now…"

"Can't we go faster?" he heard Tara say at his side.

"I'm going as fast as I can!" Aaron answered.

"Fuck…"

Daryl felt Tara move beside him.

"Move aside," she said then, "let me press the wound. Rosita, you okay with holding both bottles?"

"Of course," she answered and took Tara's bottle into her other hand.

"No…" Daryl whispered.

"Daryl, move aside."

"No!"

"Fucking hell, Daryl, move! Let me press the wound, you make sure he doesn't fall asleep."

Reluctantly, Daryl let Tara take his place and stood on Paul's other side. The scout was looking at him now, though his eyes seemed lost.

Daryl lowered his head; he couldn't see him like this. He couldn't watch how his consciousness was fading as he sat there, staring at him, unable to do anything to stop it. That man, always strong and determined, with a self-confidence as surprising as irritating—now lying lifeless in front of him as if there were no more strength left in him. Daryl remembered all those times he'd asked him to rest, and now that he needed him to stay awake, Paul was barely able to keep his eyes open.

His thoughts scattered as he felt a hand on his cheek—a cold hand. Daryl looked up and met Paul's eyes, a solitary tear slipped down his cheek until it was lost in his hair.

"Please… don't cry," he said, his voice a mere whisper.

Daryl felt his breathing alter and loose its usual rhythm. He looked at Tara, who was watching him with an expression that the archer wouldn't have been able to define. Then, he noticed that Paul's hand was losing its little strength, sliding down like the inert limp of a doll—the archer grabbed and pressed it against his chest, but when he looked back at him again, Paul had already closed his eyes.


	29. Chapter 29

Daryl's eyes were fixed on the van's rear bodywork. He leaned his head against the cold steel, sitting in a corner with his legs stretched out and his hands, covered in that dark red liquid, draped over his thighs as if his own blood had stopped flowing.

He hadn't felt his muscles for some time now, he didn't even think he could utter a word. The only signs of life that seemed to remain inside him were the tears that kept slipping silently down his cheeks.

He hadn't moved from there since they had taken him away, and the archer fought his own reflexes to keep his eyes from closing. He didn't even dare to blink because he knew that the moment his eyelids obscured his vision, even if only for a split second, the scene would repeat again in his head.

He was not sure if it had happened before or after Aaron had informed them they were close to Hilltop, because nothing that was happening made any sense to him—Paul had been barely breathing and his pulse hardly perceptible.

Daryl had felt his own body stop with a frozen chill that cuts through to the bones. He had heard Tara yell at him to keep pressing the wound and holding one of the bottles. Rosita had placed a strange mask over Paul's face, covering his mouth and nose, while Tara had moved to reassess his vital signs.

This had continued for a few minutes until the van's rear doors were slammed open. The archer didn't know who had dragged him away from Paul, he just remembered the eagerness he'd had to fight that person to let him go while they followed everyone else out of the van. He had wanted to go after them, but those arms that had gripped him tightly had prevented him from moving. He had struggled but in the end, the only thing he could do was stay there as he watched Paul being taken away from him.

Now, he back was in the car, waiting for news that never came. He let out an exasperated snarl. That damn hippie chatterbox… he'd better not die. That sudden stir of anger surprised him, but vanished as soon as the thought pierced his heart and caused a dreadful pain that threatened his whole existence, to the point he thought he'd just crumble into pieces.

A shadow appeared in front of the open doors of the vehicle but the archer didn't bother to check who it was. The car swayed as the stranger climbed in and crouched in front of him. It was Aaron. Daryl looked at him with blank eyes waiting to hear whatever he had to say, but from the expression on his face, he knew there was still no news.

"You have to get out of the car, Daryl," he said softly. "Come on, come with me. Maggie is waiting for us in the trailer. You need to clean yourself up and eat something… Daryl, you'll need your strength by the time he wakes up…"

 _That's if he even wakes up_ … he would have added, if his muscles had responded.

Aaron waited a few seconds, then took his arm and Daryl didn't struggle; he let his friend guide him out of the van. The sky had cleared and the song of the birds reached his ears with an irritating melody.

Daryl forced himself to look up to see where they were headed, despite knowing that they were walking in his trailer's direction. There, on the stairs, Maggie was waiting for them. The woman looked at them with a petrified expression, and though she managed to draw a smile, it didn't reach her eyes. She moved aside and opened the door for the three of them to get inside. Daryl wished the fucking demon-faced fate, pointing and mocking, would give them a break for once.

* * *

 _"Come on… wake up sleepyhead."_

 _"Mmm… let me sleep some more…"_

 _"Paul, you have to get up."_

 _"No…"_

 _"You've been sleeping for a long time; do you want to spend your whole life in bed?"_

 _"It doesn't sound like a bad idea… lay down with me."_

 _He heard Ben's soft laugh and then felt the weight of his body on the mattress as he made space for him._

 _"Paul… wake up," he whispered._

 _He didn't answer; just wanted to hear the sound of his voice._

 _"Come on, Paul… you have to wake up."_

He wanted to open his eyes and hug him but his lashes seemed to be glued together. Paul felt the sunlight on his eyelids but he couldn't open his eyes. He moved a hand to touch the body lying by his side, but he no longer felt his weight, nor his heat, he only felt a void between the sheets.

He groaned painfully. The sound filled his ears and hoarsely scratched his throat as if the jaws of a voracious beast were tearing at it. He put his hands to his face and rubbed until it hurt. Then he tried to open his eyes again and the light pierced his pupils like arrows of fire. He groaned again, blinking several times, trying to focus his vision to look for Ben while attempting to sit up. However, a sharp pain throbbed in his stomach, a feeling that traveled like a shot through his body.

 _A shot._

He could still feel that deep, dark sound vibrating in his eardrums. A sound that had bounced on each of the church's walls with a deafening echo, even before he had felt any pain. He was convinced that the first thing he had seen was the blood soaking the glove that covered his hand. Then, he had fallen to the floor and it had been at that moment when he'd felt a penetrating, burning pain spread throughout his abdomen.

Only a second before that he'd also fired and he had seen Vulture stagger before falling backwards. In one hand he had held his gun, Paul guessed that the fucker had pulled the trigger in that moment.

The scout didn't know how much time he had spent lying on the floor with his eyes on the church roof. It had been like he had lost track of time and had only woken up again when he had heard those shuddering moans.

He didn't even know where he had drawn the strength to sink the knife into Vulture's skull, before his new form could sink its teeth into him. Then he had moved away, not quite sure what to do. He had been aware that he should have called for help but suddenly he had felt tired, _fucking_ tired. It was hard for him to breathe, he had trouble thinking. He could only look at that red liquid staining everything, almost turning his white shirt black, while he crawled over the blue carpet that covered the aisle.

It had been a long time before had he realized that outside the bustle of artillery and the screams of those fighting had ceased. He had thought about using the nearest door to go out and see what was happening, but then he had thought of the possibility that the saviors had won. Though what had distressed him the most had been imagining Daryl's face should he see him in that state. He had not wanted to see him suffer again, as he'd seen him a few hours ago, so worried about his friends—he had only wished that, whatever was happening on the other side, he was okay.

A moment later, he had heard the front door hinges creak. He had tried to keep quiet in case it had been one of the saviors, coming to check that there was no one left in there. He could have tried to escape, but he couldn't get up or run and he had nowhere to go anyway. So he had waited, still as a stone.

He had heard the slow, cautious steps approaching him and when he had finally felt the person standing there, watching him, he had raised his head, hoping to meet the barrel's black eye pointing at him. For a second he had wished it had been that way and whoever was there had ended his agony, but then he had seen him, he had seen Daryl, his face becoming as blank and pale as a marble figure.

 _Daryl_.

Paul looked around from the bed where he was lying and though he recognized the room, he recognized the wallpaper that covered the walls, the wardrobe, the desk, even the sheets that enveloped his body; he felt completely disoriented. Nobody was there. He was alone.

He stared at the clip on his finger and the tube coming out of his left hand, attached to a plastic bag that hung from a steel bar next to the bed. He faintly noticed something sticking out of his nose, twitching slightly in his throat as he tried to swallow even though his mouth was dry. Suddenly he felt thirsty. He felt his tongue cling to his palate every time he tried to move it to say something even if there was no one to hear his words.

He looked around again, but on the nightstand and drawer was nothing more than medical stuff and the clock with red digits that read 9:35 a.m. of an unknown day.

Paul tried to sit up again but his body was heavy, as if his veins were full of hardened concrete instead of blood. And then there was that pain that shook him again with the force of a whip. This time he heard the frantic beeps that were coming from a little monitor, sitting on a side table next to his nightstand.

"Paul? Oh shit!"

He would have jumped if he had had the strength for it, but instead he turned surprised at that unexpected voice; he hadn't heard the door open. There he saw Alex, who ran to put his briefcase on a chair next to the bed—one that he hadn't noticed until then. The nurse pushed a few buttons on the monitor to make it stop beeping, then took something out of his briefcase and sat down quickly on the edge of the mattress.

"How are you? How do you feel? God… you've been in and out lately but this time you seem to be actually conscious… Let me check," he said in a nervous voice, taking his face so he wouldn't move it, and shining a light directly in his eyes. First in one eye and then in the other. "Paul, do you understand me?"

Paul nodded weakly.

"How do you feel?"

"Horrible." He said, dragging the words.

"Well at least you're _talking_ ," Alex said relieved and held a little device up into his ear, telling Paul to hold still. "No fever; thank god it went down, let's hope it stays that way."

Alex pulled away his blanket to examine his stomach while Paul stared at him with a sense of bewilderment that still refused to leave his mind. He hissed when Alex slightly touched his skin and looked down to see the chaotic mess that was supposed to be his body. Multiple wires stuck to his chest, there was a small patch on his left side and a long dressing covered the middle of his stomach which Alex was removing slowly from his skin at that moment. Underneath, an alarmingly long pink scar was revealed, held together with stitches.

"It looks good, I just hope the rest of it heals as well as this," Alex mused.

The nurse grabbed some supplies from his nightstand and began to clean his scars and change his dressings.

"Remember when we needed blood for that poor woman after childbirth and you told me you would have liked to help but you were the worst possible donator because you had the blood type AB positive?" he asked as he kept working. "The selfless generous saint who loves to help everyone, has the most egoistic blood type, and that has probably saved your life."

Paul didn't understand what he was trying to say and just waited for an explanation instead of straining his brain to follow everything he said.

"If you had seen all the people who had come to us, wanting to donate blood… I've never seen so many eager faces when needles were involved, they all wanted to help their beloved _Jesus_ —possibly the only time they had the opportunity to do so, and it was heartwarmingly beautiful."

Alex continued talking but Paul drifted off because it was too hard for him to concentrate on his chatter. He noticed Alex checking a plastic bag beside his bed that was filled with amber liquid and remarking he needed more fluids, so he stepped closer to the plastic bag on the steel bar and did something Paul couldn't see.

The nurse then sighed, covered him up again in his blanket, dropped his shoulders and stood there staring at him for so long that Paul couldn't help but wonder if all of this was not some kind of hallucination, but then he saw something in Alex's eyes—tears that made his gaze shine with the light coming through the window.

"You have no idea how happy I am to see you're awake," he said, his voice trembling, though it was obvious that Alex was making a huge effort not to break down crying right there.

Paul wanted to say something, but the words didn't come right from his dry and sore throat.

"Wait a second, I'm going to fetch you some water."

Alex ran out of the room and returned a few minutes later with a jug of water and a glass, which he placed on the dresser.

"Let me help you sit up; do you think you can do that?"

The scout stammered an affirmative answer and let Alex help him, and with more effort and pain than he would have wished, he sat on the bed.

"Here, drink some."

The liquid slid down his throat with difficulty, though he felt better after a couple of sips. When he finished, Alex took the glass from his hands and placed it on the dresser next to the jug of water.

"Do you feel better?"

"Yeah…" he managed to articulate at last, "I feel like my whole body's numb, though."

"That's normal, you've been lying here for almost a week."

Paul closed his eyes. _A week_. He'd been lying there for seven days and he hadn't been aware of anything. He didn't remember the moment they had arrived at Hilltop or anything that might have happened after that. He remembered vaguely being inside a car and seeing Daryl's blue eyes filled with tears.

His heart came to a halt and even though he knew that there was no one else besides him and Alex, he couldn't help looking around again.

"Where are the others? Are they all right?"

"Everyone's fine… well, there were some deaths… but I can only tell you what I've heard and really, Paul, it's better we don't talk about that now."

"What about Daryl? Is he okay?"

Paul would have wished that question had sounded as neutral as the previous one, but the moment his name slid from his lips, the scout felt his voice crack. He closed his eyes and took some air and when he opened them again, he found Alex's smile. It was a shy smile that showed sadness but also serenity.

"He's sleeping—I actually had to threaten to lock the door if he didn't go get some rest. He's been sitting here day and night," he said, pointing to the chair where Alex had left his briefcase, "but I can go get him if you want."

"No," the scout said, "let him sleep."

Alex nodded and they both fell silent for a moment. However, the calm didn't help Paul and suddenly he heard again, as if it was happening right now, all the tumult and confusion of the war they had just faced. A conflict that for him had ended much sooner than he had expected and wanted.

"What happened with the confrontation? What happened to Negan and the saviors?"

The expression on Alex's face hardened for a split second, but he relaxed again and smiled.

"It's over… we've won."

For a moment Paul didn't say anything, it was as if his body and his mind had been preparing for a very different response, and now he didn't know how to react.

"Is Negan dead?"

"No… Rick has locked him up in a cell. They are now coming to terms with the saviors. They want to make sure that they can reach a peace agreement and that there's not going to be any kind of reprisal."

That was the moment when Paul let out a breath of relief and a smile finally appeared on his lips. Then his eyes fell on his wrist, the one that didn't have the tube. The leather bracelet Alex had given him was still there and almost intact. Paul stroked it with his fingertips, distracted.

"You told me to give it back to you when I got back," he said in a whisper.

Alex wrapped his warm hand around his wrist. "Keep it, after all, looks like it worked for you, too…" Alex closed his eyes and bit his trembling lips, "Paul… you have no idea how lucky you were! When you got here…"Alex's voice weakened again and the nurse took a big breath, "you were in shock, you were about to stop breathing—fuck, Paul… it's a miracle you're still alive. Rosita and Tara looked after you in the best possible way they could, considering the circumstances, if they hadn't done what they did… the bullet was located in your abdomen—fortunately, it didn't penetrate vital organs though it injured some parts of your intestines and you lost a lot of blood. You had a shit ton of luck considering everything, Paul…"

Paul listened carefully and though he would have liked to say something, his mind went completely blank. He had no memory of it and now he could only imagine what it might have been. However, the idea of his death didn't distress him as much as imagining Daryl witnessing it all.

Alex sighed heavily by his side and rubbed his eyes, as if he himself was trying to get that memory out of his head.

"I have to tell Harlan," he said, "then I'll come and see if I can remove any of the stuff that's stuck to you so you can move around, and maybe even get out of bed."

The scout nodded. "The truth is I'd like to get up. I don't think I can walk much, but I could sit over there."

He pointed to the chair by his desk, which was exactly where he had left it the night before they had to leave prematurely. The same night Daryl had given himself to him in a way he'd never imagined.

"I think we should start with you sitting up in bed, first," Alex said. "I don't want you to black out."

Alex pushed aside the sheets and comforter and helped him to sit on the edge of the bed. Alex was right; when his feet touched the ground, Paul felt a sudden dizziness and knew he would fall down if he tried to stand up now.

"How do you feel?" Alex asked.

"Dizzy."

"You wanna lay down again?"

"No, it's alright."

Before Alex helped him on his feet, he opened a dresser drawer and pulled out a rubber band to tie his hair in a messy bun.

"Now wait for me, I'll get you a wheelchair."

Paul sat there waiting for a few minutes until Alex came back into the room with a black wheelchair and positioned it beside the bed.

"I don't want to use the wheelchair."

"Paul—"

"Please… I just want to sit in the chair."

The nurse didn't look happy about that, but he still helped him to stand up slowly after he had disconnected him from the majority of the wires.

"I'm sure I smell like hell," he tried to tease.

"You don't smell of anything, Paul."

A slight jolt made him wince as soon as he laid all the weight of his body on the wooden floor. He closed his eyes and tried to hold back the moan that formed in his throat, but he couldn't.

"Does it hurt?"

"I can manage."

"Harlan will give you something for the pain later along with your daily antibiotics, but if it starts to hurt more or anything else, please let us know as soon as possible. You've had a fever the first few days, it went down eventually but we don't want to risk anything, so just keep us posted, okay?"

Paul listened intently to Alex's recommendations as they walked toward the chair and sat down with a loud sigh. He was not going to admit it out loud, but that little walk had left him exhausted.

"Here. I brought you a robe, you shouldn't get cold," Alex said after setting up the I.V. pole next to him.

The nurse helped him to put a huge garnet-colored robe on, added a light blanket over his legs and set the jug of water on the desk. "I have to go now to talk to Harlan, do you need anything else?"

"Yeah… could you bring me a book? The one about animals that's over there, on the dresser."

"Sure," he said, taking the book. "Is this what you like to read now?" he asked with an amused expression.

Paul simply shrugged.

"Well, I'll see you later."

* * *

The hours passed, though Paul didn't even bother to look at the clock. The sun coming through the window, warming his skin, was enough to make him feel better. He was alive, after all. He was there at Hilltop and Negan had finally been defeated, and as stupid as it sounded, he felt a significant calm in the air that he didn't think he had felt before, at least not since the world had collapsed.

He was happy just to be sitting in that chair, reading the heavy book Daryl had given him. He smiled remembering the moment he had entered the room and had found it on the bed, wrapped in wrinkled and dirty paper, and he noticed the same tingling in the stomach he had felt that day.

 _God_ , he wanted to see him.

He wanted to be able to look at him and see with his own eyes that he was okay. The look of his face, contorted by fear, kept tormenting him whenever his memory went back to a few days ago, and that hurt him more than the wound piercing his left side.

Paul closed his eyes for a second and in that moment he heard the doorknob. Daryl carefully peered his head, then came in with slow steps as if he didn't want to make much noise. His gaze fell on the bed, now empty, and a slight shadow of alarm passed over his face until his eyes traveled quickly around the room and met his.

Neither said anything. They only looked at each other for a long, silent moment before Paul spoke first: "Did you know that a cat's brain is, biologically, more similar to a human brain than a dog's? We have identical regions controlling our emotions."

Daryl stared at him impassively for a moment, then let out the air he seemed to have been holding in his lungs, which slipped through his lips with the sound of a masked laugh.

"Swear I'm gonna burn that book—and that chair, too."

Paul couldn't stop the smile that contoured his lips. Just listening to the sound of his husky voice had been enough to make much of the stiffness that gripped his body disappear. Then he closed the book and waited—more impatiently than usual—while Daryl took the other chair and placed it right next to him. The archer looked at him with obvious concern, as if he felt that a simple blink might be enough to make it all go away, like nothing was real.

"When didja wake up? Does somethin' hurt? Why ain't you in bed?"

"I woke up a few hours ago and I'm fine. Alex came in just—"

"And why didn't he tell me? I told 'im to let me know if—"

"Because I told him not to—and I'm sorry, archer, but it's obvious that he likes me better than you."

Paul had tried to joke to appease the obvious tension that clung, like a second skin, to each of the archer's muscles. However, Daryl bowed his head with an uneasy sigh.

"Daryl…"

"Fuck—you got no idea how much you scared me…" he said, his voice sounded muffled and tremulous, "I thought we were gonna lose you. Thought _I_ was gonna lose you—you were barely breathin', you didn't respond to nothin'… and I couldn't stop thinkin' how unfair it was—why you? Why now? You didn't deserve it— you've done so much for everybody—fuck, Paul, I was so scared…"

Tears began to stream from his eyes as Daryl kept his gaze on the floor and Paul felt his heart quiver and his throat close painfully.

"Hey… hey." Paul leaned forward, ignoring the pain he felt in his side, and laid a hand on the archer's cheek, brushing some of the tears soaking his face, "Daryl, look at me… I'm here, okay? It's over—we've won. I'm fine… Daryl, come on, look at me…" The archer lifted his head. "Please, don't cry."

Something changed in the archer's face but he wiped his tears awkwardly, almost as a child would do.

"You're good?" Paul asked softly.

Daryl's brow furrowed, looking at him as if that question made no sense and shook his head. "You jus' woke up after lying here for days—after you were about to die… and you ask me if I'm okay?"

"Yeah, Daryl, I'm asking because I want to know! Because I'm looking at your face and all I see in your eyes is fear."

"Damn it Paul, you almost died!"

Paul ducked his head and sighed. "Daryl, I understand perfectly how you might be feeling because I went through it—I know how much it hurts, but as hard as it is, in the end you'd realize that you have no choice but to move on. And right now there's nothing that saddens me more than to think that if something were to happen to me one day, you wouldn't be able to do it.… Daryl, please tell me you will."

The archer shook his head.

"Daryl…"

"I don't know if m'ready…"

"You'll have to, because otherwise I swear to god I'll come back as an annoying ghost and kick your ass."

The archer let out a laugh that mingled with the tears that wet his face again.

"I'm going to ask you again… are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah… m'okay… m'okay now."

"What about the rest?"

Daryl took a deep breath before answering. "Those who were seriously injured, were taken to the Kingdom and the saviors' settlement—turns out that their doctor is Harlan's brother. The rest were brought here, but there were also casualties," he said, lowering his voice. "The Kingdom lost seventeen men—Kal was shot, he was still alive when he got here but Harlan couldn't do anything' for him…"

Paul felt a heavy pressure in his chest but let Daryl keep talking, "Alexandria lost a lot of people, I didn't know most of 'em, though—however, Sasha and Father Gabriel…" Daryl sighed heavily, rubbing his eyes. "Rick and the rest are fine, now they're jus' tryin' to make sure those assholes won't think about revenge, and make everythin' work again."

Leaning back on the back of the chair, Paul reached for Daryl's hand and squeezed it. "We'll find a way to make it all work again, you'll see," he said softly.

Daryl fixed his gaze on that pale hand that still needed to recover much of the strength it had lost. Then he lifted his head to fix his blue eyes back on Paul's, and finally smiled.

"Yeah, we will."

They stayed in that same position for a while, holding the other's hand as they watched through the window how the day carried on with a stealth and calmness that they hoped would last for a long time.

"Wouldn't you be more comfortable in bed?" Daryl asked after a while.

"Alex and Harlan came to see me earlier, said that the wounds look good and that I don't need to spend time in bed more than I need to. They said I needed to regain strength and slowly start walking around as much as my condition allows it, you know, even if only around this room, but I guess I'm stuck with that wheelchair for a while because walking is too exhausting right now. I didn't want to leave the room before you came. Though the truth is I'd like to get out of here, there's one thing I'm dying to do."

"What?"

A shy smile crossed the scout's face. "Do you really want to know?"

"Coming from you I expect the worst… but c'mon, say it."

"Brush my teeth."

Daryl stared at him for a few seconds, as if the words had reached his ears with some kind of delay, but he started to laugh. "Really?"

"Totally. I'm convinced I could wither all the vegetation around us with my breath alone."

Though he tried to sound serious, Paul couldn't help but smile as he watched Daryl shake his head and laugh. Seeing and hearing that laughter, which not only showed happiness but profound relief, made him feel much more awake than he had been a moment before.

"You're fuckin' crazy, Paul Monroe… c'mon, let me help you get in that wheelchair."

"No, let me, I can do it alone. You just take care of the I.V.," he replied and tried to get up on his own, but he felt as if his was now the body of an old man. The scout sighed loudly. "Okay… maybe not."

Going in the hallway was like entering a new dimension for Paul—it was as if everything was familiar and unknown at the same time. A chill ran down his body as they moved and he looked around; everything seemed calm, no one was around and he appreciated that little moment of intimacy.

In the bathroom, Daryl helped him to stand up, leaving his arm around his waist for a while until he was sure Paul wouldn't fall.

"Do you need anythin' else?" Daryl asked, leaning against the bathroom's door while Paul finished brushing his teeth, "Does the little prince wanna wash his hair, too?"

"It depends, are you going to wash my hair, archer?"

"Don't even dream 'bout it."

Paul laughed. "Then I'll think about taking a shower later—okay, I'm done here."

"Ya wanna go to the terrace? Get some air?"

"Sounds good."

"Great, because… I'd like you to see somethin'."

Paul tilted his head to the side, completely intrigued. "What?"

"You'll see."

"Come on, tell me what it is."

"You'll see, impatient man."

They left the bathroom and moved down the hall toward the terrace.

When Daryl opened the terrace door the autumnal breeze stirred Paul's clothes and whipped his face pleasantly, filling his lungs with a fresh air that injected a new energy into his body. He could smell the grass and the trees and the cattle, and suddenly he felt himself wake up again.

They moved over to the railing and he watched all those people who kept on working unconcernedly, as if nothing had happened, as if everything was still the same. And yet, there was something in the atmosphere that made everything look completely different.

His eyes rested on Anna, one of Abbie's friends, who sat on the stairs of the trailer she shared with her mother and brother, waving a hand toward him. Paul smiled, waving back at her as Daryl placed himself next to him, resting his elbows on the railing, and watching him curiously.

"What?"

Daryl shrugged.

"What is it?"

"Take a look."

Paul frowned and watched the colony carefully. "The doors?" he asked, realizing that the high metal sheets were back where they should be.

Daryl shook his head and Paul continued to stare, not sure what he was looking for. He saw Earl Sutton's stand where the man continued working as usual, he saw the people coming and going from the vegetable gardens, he saw those in charge of feeding the animals. He also saw those who were milking the cows and those who were pulling out the horses and the ones who… the scout's eyes widened. He looked at Daryl, who had straightened his back with a confident smile planted on his face, then moved as close to the other side of the terrace as the wheelchair would allow him, then got up, awkwardly bracing himself on the railing.

"Hey, hey, be careful, man…"

"No way…" the scout finally said, unable to look away from that white mare with brown spots. Her golden hair looked almost white in the sunlight as it fluttered in the wind. " _Dama_?"

"It's a gift from the Crazy Ki—Ezekiel," Daryl said, approaching him.

Paul felt his eyes watering.

"Are you really goin' to cry over a horse?" Daryl asked jokingly. "Ya didn't look half as excited to see me."

Paul laughed. "You're an idiot and I see you every day."

The archer also let out a slight laugh and put an arm around him, pulling him closer.

"Oh shit…"

Daryl released him quickly. "What, what—did I hurt you?"

"Just kidding."

"Damn it, Paul… don't do this to me, fuckin' hell, you have no idea—"

"Hey… it's okay, it's okay…"

Paul gave him a warm smile, placing both hands on his face and getting closer to press his lips over his in a sweet, tender kiss.

"Thank you," Paul said in a whisper.

"Why?"

"For being there."

"Again? You gonna thank me every time I do somethin' I said I would?"

"I know… I guess I'm not used to it yet."

This time it was Daryl who cupped Paul's face in his hands, capturing his mouth with a controlled urgency, expressing in a kiss all the concern he had felt during the past few days.

"Don't do this to me ever again…" he said in a hoarse whisper, his forehead on Paul's.

A soggy swirling rocked Paul's stomach. He could imagine what Daryl had been through because he knew he would have felt exactly the same if he had been in his place. He closed his eyes tightly; he didn't want to think about having to go through something like that again, despite being aware that the world around them was as unpredictable as unknown, and they still had to learn a lot from it.

"Ya know?" the archer said, pulling away slightly, "During these last few days I was thinkin' that maybe—I mean, when you get better—maybe you—only if you want, of course… uhm… I dunno, maybe you'd like to come by the trailer with me…"

Paul tried to hide the smile that was trying to form on his lips, as he listened to Daryl with that annoyance that, even after what had happened between them, he still seemed unable to leave aside.

"Do you want me to move in with you?"

Daryl shrugged. "I know your room has a bigger and more comfortable bed, and that it's much nicer and fancy and warm and—"

"What about the rest? Harlan told me that Aaron, Tara and Rosita were here."

"They're patrollin', and anyway they're staying in the house—Maggie also wanted me to move into a room, but I prefer the trailer," he said, shrugging again, "Tara and Aaron sometimes stay with me, but it's not like I've spent much time there these days, anyway."

"So it's true…" the two turned immediately as soon as they heard that new voice and saw Maggie appear on the terrace. "You're awake."

The woman's face curved into a wide, heartfelt smile, as she rushed to embrace him. Paul could feel her weeping emotionally against his shoulder.

"Come on… you're all going to make me cry."

Paul tried to joke but his voice broke for a second. Maggie pulled away from him, wiping away those treacherous tears that had slipped from her eyes and laughed.

"I'm so glad to see you out of bed—fuck Paul, you have no idea how much you scared us."

For a moment Paul didn't find the words, so he just nodded. "Everything's good here?" he asked after a few seconds of silence.

"All good."

"Gregory?"

Maggie sighed reluctantly. "He said he only wanted to protect Hilltop—the truth is that I didn't want to hear him say one more word about that. I've put him to work in the stables, maybe he'll understand that you can't run a community just by sitting in a comfortable armchair."

"Well, Gregory covered in dung is something I really want to see."

The three laughed silently.

"We are planning a community dinner at the library tonight, I would love for you to join us if you think you can deal with all the people pestering you, in a good way, of course."

"I'll think about it."

Maggie smiled. "Do you mind if I steal him from you for a moment?" she asked nodding toward Daryl. "It's not urgent, but I need your help with one of the tractors."

"Sure," Daryl replied.

"Well, I'll see you later," she said, then gave Paul a warm kiss on the cheek and left them alone again.

"You see, hippie? I wasn't the only one scared."

An overwhelming feeling of guilt assaulted him suddenly. Daryl stepped forward and pulled him into a firm, loving embrace, and for a moment Paul thought he was about to break down. He took a deep breath, trying to regain his strength as he concentrated on the sound and movement of Daryl's slow breathing and let the warmth of his body envelop him just as his arms did.

"Well…" the archer said, stepping back, "I should go see what the problem is with that tractor. You gonna be okay? Can I help ya' back to your room?"

"I'm fine, Daryl, don't worry. I'll sit here for a while."

"Okay…"

The archer seemed reluctant to leave, it was as if his body wanted to get going but his mind was forcing him to stay there.

"I'll see you later," he said pressing his lips quickly on his forehead and walking towards the door.

"Daryl…" Paul said before he could get back into the house. "Yes… I would like to move into the trailer with you, but I must warn you that I'm a neat freak and I mean serious, don't let all those stacked books confuse you. I know exactly where each one of them is placed—and of course they're all coming with me, that is non-negotiable. No dirty dishes in the sink or mud in the house. You should also know that I like to read before bed and that I usually move a lot when I don't sleep well—though you already knew that. I'm telling you because I don't want you to regret having asked me, later on."

"Let's see who regrets it first…" the archer answered, not bothering to hide the smile that spread across his face. "Don't do anythin' stupid while I'm gone."

Paul watched the door for a few seconds after Daryl had left, then sat back on the wheelchair with a deep sigh and all of a sudden, the tears he had been holding back for a long time were now rolling down his face. He was not even sure why he was crying, but it seemed to be something his body was begging for. It was as if it was its way to let flow all those feelings that sometimes he was unable to express.

He felt happy and relieved, _yes_ , and not only because he was alive, but because he could see with his own eyes that all the people he had learned to love during those months were also okay and continued working to move on, now with the confidence of knowing that no one would stand in their way.

He was happy because he had regained some of that hope he thought he had lost the very moment he had taken Abbie in his arms. He had known that behind him, on his living room's table, where they had shared so many intimate moments, he had left much of his life and with it a capacity to love that he had been convinced he would never feel again.

He had been wrong.

And now his stomach reacted unashamedly every time Daryl appeared in front of him. Every time he heard his husky voice or every time he looked at those innocent blue eyes. And he felt strange to feel the way he felt, even guilty at times, but he couldn't help it. Not anymore. He had never expected to have a person like Daryl by his side, and now that he had him, he couldn't imagine things any other way. A person who would probably never have thought himself being capable of loving or being loved. Now they both were there, in the same place at the same time, and he hoped that they could make the best of that miraculous time they had been granted again.

Paul wiped away the tears that stained his cheeks and took a deep look at everything around him. Not only Hilltop, or its people, but all that was beyond the walls—Alexandria, The Kingdom, and who knew how many other communities might be out there.

He couldn't wait to get up, go out there again and join the others to help them to build a new, better world.


	30. Chapter 30

"It's here?" Daryl asked, looking down the street, flanked on both sides by single-family houses, of what had once been a quiet residential neighborhood.

"It's a few houses down," Paul replied.

"And why didja park here?"

"I don't know…"

Daryl shifted in his seat so he could take a closer look at Paul, who gripped the steering wheel with both hands, as if he were afraid that a superhuman force would slam the door open and drag him out of the car without him being able to do something to stop it.

"We can go back…" Daryl suggested.

Paul didn't answer, completely absorbed, his icy blue eyes pinned on the street that obviously brought him more memories than Daryl could possibly imagine.

"No… I'm not going to turn around now."

They were in Washington, and they were there because Daryl himself had suggested it. The weeks after Paul had finally awakened had gone by normally, or at least that's what it had looked like. The wounds had been healing well, that's what both Harlan and Alex had said every time they had come to visit him in his room. He had begun to eat the same day he had woken up, though he had shunned the communal dinner Maggie had invited him to. So, the two of them had stayed in his room, dining together, though Paul had insisted that he join the rest. Daryl hadn't wanted to leave him alone, especially at that moment, after waiting days just to look into his eyes and hear his voice again.

Harlan had suggested he stop using the wheelchair the next day, so they had started to take short walks. At first, they had kept to the corridors of Barrington House—which were practically empty during the day—always ending up on the terrace, and days later they had ventured out to walk around the colony.

People had approached him to see how he was and to offer him gifts and food. Everyone had wanted to show gratitude in some way or another for what he had done for them. For almost sacrificing his life so that everyone could breathe freely for what felt like the first time.

Paul recovered well, and yet there was something in his face, in his expression, which seemed continually disturbed. He still couldn't sleep well at night—he hadn't been able to sleep in his room, nor in the trailer, after moving in with Daryl two weeks later. He didn't sleep even after their moments of intimacy, though for the moment those hadn't been more than kisses and caresses, and that didn't seem to be enough to exhaust his still-weakened body.

Even if Paul was lying down on the bed, still as a rock, Daryl knew he was not sleeping, he could feel that heavy, controlled breath. Sometimes, he would get up after a few hours, careful not to wake Daryl up, though in fact he was already awake—and sat on that horrible green couch to read something, letting the time pass. Then, he would go back to bed while Daryl pretended to wake up, and the two of them would act as if everything were normal.

But it wasn't.

Daryl knew that the whole experience was taking its toll on Paul, even though he insisted on showing that carefree smile that everyone accepted without question. However, he couldn't fool Daryl—not him. His gaze betrayed him even though no one else bothered to look into it, and Daryl knew there was something about it that went well beyond the scars that now marked his abdomen.

"Are you gonna tell me what's wrong?" Daryl had asked, three days before the trip. Sitting at the table in their tiny kitchen, while Paul reorganized the cabinets for the second time that week.

The scout had stopped his activity for a second, but then he had continued with what he had been doing. "Why do you ask that?" he had said, in a bored tone, and not even turning to look at him.

"Cos it's obvious somethin's wrong with you."

"Nothing's wrong with me."

"That's not true."

"Daryl, no—"

"Don't give me that shit, Paul—you still ain't sleepin' at night, d'ya really think I don't notice?"

"There've been a lot of things happening these days, Daryl, I guess my brain is still getting used to all those changes—it's not that difficult to understand."

His tone had been bitter, more than usual, then the silence had filled the kitchen to the point where the air had become dense and suffocating.

"D'ya think I'm an idiot?" Daryl had inquired gravely.

Paul had turned enough to look at him over his shoulder, but then he had continued to organize all those useless dishes.

"You know I don't."

"Then why on earth would you treat me like I was?"

Those words, which had sounded harsh and defiant, had finally worked their way into the scout, who had turned to fix his crystal eyes on him.

The tension had grown between them like rough water, and at that moment _Cat_ had jumped on the table, as if the animal, aware of what was happening, wanted to interpose between them, asking for peace in that rarefied environment.

"Look, I don't want you to worry about it, okay? It has nothing to do with you," he had tried to make his voice sound as usual, relaxed and calm, but that hadn't managed to appease the archer.

"It has nothin' to do with me…"

"No."

"Ya know what? I'm not sleepin', either," he confessed, showing his tiredness, "I don't sleep because I know you don't, and I still don't understand why you don't give a shit 'bout it," he had let out a deep and angry sigh. "D'ya know why you got that fuckin' bullet, Paul? Have you stopped to think 'bout it for a second? The man I met at the gas station, the one who cheated us, stole us and chased us on the roof of a fuckin' truck, would never have run after Vulture. However, the man who has spent weeks without sleepin' a wink, assumin' responsibilities that were not his… yes—that man was destined to do somethin' foolish. I knew that you would do it, I knew that you would end up doin' something stupid… and you've been real lucky, Paul. You had a ton of luck—I know you know it. That's why you spend all day organizin' all this shit, to keep your mind busy—so don't you dare fuckin' tell me that I shouldn't worry 'bout it, or that it has nothin' to do with me… fuckin' hell!"

Daryl's voice had risen in tone and agony with each word fired. He closed his eyes, telling himself to calm down, that Paul might just need time, but he knew he could not continue to sit idly by while he watched Paul slowly consume himself.

When he had opened his eyes, he had met Paul's downcast expression, and that had broken him inside. Paul had dropped his shoulders and lowered his gaze, so he wouldn't have to meet his. Then he had let out a fierce breath as he moved his head from side to side. Daryl had watched him as he clearly had struggled to decide between what he wanted to do and what he should do.

"I don't know why I feel this way lately," he had said in a whisper, "it's something I've thought of more than once, but now, for some reason, the memory has become incredibly painful. Maybe that's why, maybe it's because I don't understand why I've been so lucky—and now, every time I close my eyes I see him—I see Ben. I see him on the table in our living room, lifeless, with a fireplace poker stuck in his head… a poker that I used on him—I killed him and left him there, alone… I didn't stop to think about it at the time because all I wanted was to get Abbie out of there and protect her from all that madness… but I couldn't do that either… although at least I was able to say goodbye to her."

Daryl's heart had shrunk to the size of a bean. He had felt something strange in his stomach as soon as Paul had mentioned Ben, he was sure it had been jealousy, and he had felt miserable because of it. Still, he had let him talk and listened to what he had to say. He understood, because he couldn't imagine himself being able to do something like that to him, he didn't see himself able to leave him alone like that.

"I've been thinking about going there more than once," he had continued, "especially after Abbie's death, but I've found neither the courage nor the time to do it."

Daryl had risen at that moment and had approached him. Paul was so engrossed in his own thoughts that he had startled when Daryl had caressed his cheek.

"D'ya wanna go?" he had asked almost without thinking about it.

Paul had tried to avoid his gaze, but Daryl had stopped him. "Paul, look at me… d'ya wanna go? Because if you wanna go, I'll go with you."

For a moment Paul had said nothing, just had stared into his eyes as if he were studying the possibility that those words might have some other meaning that had escaped his understanding.

"I can't ask you to do that, Daryl…"

"You didn't ask me, I'm offerin' to go with you—and I don't give a shit if I hafta go to Washington, if it means that that head of yours is goin' to get some fuckin' rest."

So there they sat, three days later, parked to one side of a residential street, amongst the skeletons of abandoned cars that crossed the road in all directions. A memory of a past that seemed more and more distant than it really was.

He heard the sound of the door and Paul got out of the car, muttering something. Daryl stared at him for a few seconds before following him outside. He saw him hesitate; he looked nervous, though he tried hard to hide it, and Daryl couldn't blame him. He couldn't imagine what he must be going through, because even he felt a strong and unpleasant pressure growing in his stomach.

They walked slowly between the vehicles, treading cautiously over pavement that had succumbed to the consuming forces of nature. The only signs of life seemed to be the leaves stirred by the cold wind that announced the arrival of winter.

The scout stopped suddenly, watching the entrance of one of the houses, a small landscaped area without fencing. The lawn had grown so much that it had swallowed what had once been the entrance to the house.

"This is Mr. Allerton's house," Paul said, "he wasn't exactly the nicest man in the neighborhood, but I can't blame him for hating Ben and me. _Emmes_ loved to do his _business_ on his lawn. We tried to walk him around other areas, but it was a waste of time; he always ended up here… I guess that's why they say dogs are creatures of habit."

Paul smiled at that memory, though it was a sad smile. Daryl wanted to say something to encourage him but he knew it was useless, so he kept quiet and the two continued their walk.

Daryl looked around, trying to imagine how life might have been there, a life that felt too different from his own. The houses were hiding behind the trees that had taken over the sidewalks, hidden as forgotten treasures. From what little he could see of them, he could tell they had been expensive and that not anyone could've been able to live there.

His body stopped almost unconsciously at the same time as Paul. The scout had stopped by a stone wall no higher than their knees, watching, with the breath caught in his lungs, the house that was a few steps behind it. It was a narrow, two-storey house with red brick walls. It had a small porch and a terrace right above it.

Daryl heard the deep sigh that escaped Paul's lips and he had no doubt that this was the house they were looking for.

"Paul…"

The scout remained silent; he just took a deep breath and crossed to the other side with forced determination. The archer followed him and stopped again in front of the doorway; it was slightly ajar. Paul frowned and Daryl drew his knife immediately, waiting for Paul to do the same. Then, very slowly, the scout began to move it with one hand. A sharp crack welcomed them when the door was completely open.

Daryl could feel an intense and painful tingling in his stomach, and his eyes met Paul's briefly. The scout looked frightened and anxious, but with a sigh of resignation he stepped forward and entered the house.

They moved slowly down the hallway in front of them. There was blood on the wooden floor, dried blood that had become almost black as the years had passed. There were books, objects and photographs all over the place. To their right, next to the entrance, was a small built-in wardrobe, the doors were wide open and its interior was completely ransacked. From the expression on Paul's face, Daryl knew that someone else had entered the house after he had abandoned it.

They walked on; to their left, the open wall revealed the kitchen. The furniture was dark wood and there was a small island in the middle, under the big window that could be seen from the street. Daryl watched the room and, without being able to control the activity of his own brain, he pictured Paul in there, a completely different Paul than the one walking next to him right now.

Daryl swallowed and followed Paul, his heart beating more and more nervously. The hallway ended and opened into a larger room. To his left was a chimney with two bookshelves at each side—the contents scattered on the floor. In the middle, a large sofa, and behind it, French doors leading to what Daryl imagined would be the backyard. Next to the doors, on the floor, were the remains of someone unknown.

Daryl blinked a couple of times and then looked to his right; there were some floating stairs, and just below them they found what they had come looking for.

Paul put a hand to his mouth, drowning out the exhausted cry that grew in his throat, and closed his eyes. Not even Daryl believed himself prepared for the image before them.

Just as Paul had said, Ben rested on the wooden table in the living room, but that was not what Daryl had expected to find. After two years he had imagined that only bones would remain in there. However, what was in front of them was the mummified body of a man. His clothes were almost intact, although he had lost all his hair, and his skin, which wrinkled and clung to his bones, had a color that the archer couldn't define.

Daryl heard the erratic breaths to his side and immediately wrapped an arm around Paul, pulling him closer. The scout didn't struggle and buried his face in his shoulder. Daryl could feel him tremble against his chest, so he hugged him and held him firmly, stroking his hair gently, until he felt Paul relax.

"Go get a sheet," he whispered in his ear, after a moment.

Paul walked away from him and up the stairs quickly. Daryl took a deep breath and looked at the corpse for a few seconds. Then he closed his eyes and only opened them when he heard Paul's hard steps above him. Shortly afterwards, the scout appeared again with sheets in his hands.

Aware that they had to finish this quickly, Daryl rounded the table as Paul spread one of the sheets on the floor.

"Wait," Paul snapped suddenly, before he could get his hands on Ben, "don't touch him."

The scout disappeared down the hallway. Daryl heard him open drawers and cabinets in the kitchen, and returned shortly after bringing something with him.

"Put these on," he said, handing him some rubber gloves.

They moved the body carefully, and it was a strange feeling; it weighed nothing; it was like lifting a hollow log that seemed about to split up in their hands at any second, but finally, they managed to place it on the sheet and covered it.

* * *

It had been at least two or three hours; Daryl was not sure. After placing Ben on the sheet they had gone out into the backyard, Paul had brought a shovel with him and Daryl had begun to dig the ground. Paul had insisted several times to let him do it but Daryl had not wanted him to exert more effort than necessary; he was still recovering, though in the end the scout had snatched the shovel from his hands and had continued with the work.

Now he was sitting on the porch, staring at the two mounds where Ben and the remains of his dog were buried. Daryl decided to give him some privacy, so he entered the house, though unsure of what to do. He didn't dare to sit on either of the two couches in the living room, not even on one of the chairs. So he just stood there, watching, staring at the house that, for five years, had been the home of the man who had changed his life completely. He looked around at the dark blue walls, at the decoration that was still standing, and the flowerpots that now only contained dry earth—the pictures hanging in the walls, the paintings, the photographs… he had tried to avoid the photographs, but finally his curiosity had been stronger than his own will.

He picked up one of the frames on the floor and turned it around, and almost breathed in relief when he saw it was just a picture of Paul. He was sitting on a balustrade, looked like a lookout, behind him was the sea. Paul didn't look at the camera but the slight smile that curled the corner of his lips seemed to make it clear that he was aware that a picture was being taken. His hair was tied up into a half bun, he wore sunglasses, a T-shirt and shorts. Daryl had never seen him like this; it was like looking at someone completely different from the man he knew.

He put the picture on the table behind the couch and picked up another—his heart skipped a beat. There were three people in that picture: Paul, another man he was sure was Ben, and in the middle of the two, held in their arms, was a little girl with brown hair and big green eyes. The girl wore a cardboard cap, looked like they were celebrating something—the three of them smiling broadly at the camera. Happy.

Daryl gave a slight jolt when he noticed someone standing beside him. It was Paul. He hadn't heard him get inside.

"Abbie?" Daryl asked.

Paul smiled slightly and nodded, "It was her fifth birthday."

The two of them stared at the picture for a while, and Daryl couldn't help but look at Ben. He was around Paul's age, thin, green-eyed and with matted black hair, just as Paul had described him. It was almost impossible to believe that he was the same person who had just been buried in the backyard. Though, what moved him the most was to see the perceptible glow in the eyes of the three of them.

"M'sorry…" Daryl said in a whisper.

Daryl felt a hand on his back, then Paul took the picture and placed it next to the other one he had left there a moment before.

Paul sighed and turned to stare at him, "We should go, it's getting dark and Ezekiel must be waiting for us."

The archer nodded and they set off a few seconds later.

"Don't you wanna take anythin'?" Daryl asked just before leaving the house.

Paul seemed to ponder that question for a split second, then shook his head. "No."

They went outside and Paul closed and locked the door behind them, making sure no one else could enter.

* * *

He never thought that setting foot inside the trailer was going to make him feel the relief that was flooding him at that moment. They were back at Hilltop, and Daryl was grateful for it. They had tried to make the journey as short as possible, and after spending the night under Ezekiel's hospitality, they had set out again early in the morning.

At first Daryl thought he would appreciate a change of environment even if it was only for one day. They had spent much of the last few weeks stuck at Hilltop because of Paul's recovery, and Daryl knew he needed to get out of there, too, though his motivations were completely different.

It hadn't been a pleasant trip, the two of them knew it even though none of them dared to say it aloud. At least Daryl was glad he'd seen Carol again, in fact he'd been surprised to see her. She didn't look like the same woman he'd left a few months back in a wheelchair. Carol seemed to have adapted to her new life at The Kingdom and from what he had sensed of their conversation, she had no intention of going back to Alexandria. There, she had finally found her place.

Still, Carol hadn't wanted to talk much about herself, she had been much more interested in him and the new person she claimed he had become. Although she hadn't been as surprised as Daryl had expected. «People talk» she had said, but even so, she had claimed she was happy for him, and to see that Paul was feeling better, because the news they had received about his condition hadn't been promising.

They had said goodbye to all of them and had left The Kingdom with the first rays of the sun. This time it had been Daryl behind the wheel as Paul had leaned back in the seat next to him with his eyes closed. He had not slept, Daryl knew it. Neither of them had slept during the night, though the archer had tried not to think too much about it. Now they were back home, and he hoped things would really start to change from that moment on.

He went outside to smoke a cigarette while Paul took a shower, after that he talked to Maggie and by the time he returned, Paul was in the kitchen with his back to him as he drank a glass of water.

Daryl stared at him, still worried. They had barely spoken during the whole trip, and Daryl couldn't ignore the knot that had settled in his stomach since they had left Hilltop.

"I'm an idiot," Paul said suddenly. "I'm thinking… I've forgotten the most important part of this whole trip."

He set the glass in the sink and turned to face him. Daryl blinked quickly and swallowed, fearing what might come out of his mouth.

"What?"

"Bring some weed."

The archer cocked his head and raised an eyebrow, not sure whether to take that as a joke or not. "Alex said you shouldn't smoke."

"That was when I had the stitches."

"Doesn't matter, you shouldn't smoke—not 'til you feel better."

"Daryl I'm fine—and, anyway, since when do you listen to what Alex says?"

"Don't give a shit 'bout what he says—well, jus' when it's about your health."

"Like when they say «try not to exert yourself»?"

Daryl blushed intently and Paul smiled at last. And that smile was enough to make all the tension accumulated in the archer's abdomen disappear.

"Thank you… for doing all this for me," Paul said in a whisper.

Daryl shrugged. "You needed to recover…"

"I'm not talking about that, Daryl—I know this hasn't been easy for you, either."

Daryl shook his head. "It doesn't matter, it's not 'bout me, it's 'bout you. I jus' want you to be okay."

Paul smiled again. "Do you want to do something else for me?"

"What?"

"Come here and give me a hug."

This time it was Daryl's lips that curled up in a lovely, shy smile. The archer walked toward Paul without thinking twice and wrapped him in an intense embrace. Paul's arms clung to him tightly, and the two stood just like that for what seemed like hours. Holding each other, feeling the beating of their hearts and the swaying of their breaths.

Daryl closed his eyes, trying to relax. He was not sure why, but suddenly he felt the need to cry, maybe it was just of pure happiness because at last things seemed to be going well—though he opened his eyes again when he felt the soft touch of Paul's lips on his neck. Paul kissed his chin and cheek until his lips met his. Daryl didn't resist as he lost himself in that kiss, they both seemed to need it as much as they needed to breathe.

Their mouths played against each other, as their bodies pressed together, asking silently for more with the passing minutes.

Paul slipped his hands under Daryl's shirt, touching his skin, and the archer pulled away slightly, but Paul grabbed him again and buried his head in his neck.

"I think it's time for you to show me what you can do in that bed, archer," he whispered in his ear.

His warm breath and the ripping sound of his voice sent an intense electric tingling that ran all over his body and into his crotch. Daryl thought his heart would come out of his mouth and this was only reacting to his words.

During those weeks they had taken things slowly, mainly because Harlan had thus advised, and because Daryl really feared that Paul could get hurt. That _he_ could hurt him. They had shared kisses and intimate caresses, but they hadn't gone further. And though they had both been aware that they needed some time, their bodies didn't seem to agree, and that fire had grown inside them uncontrollably.

"You sure? You—?"

Paul didn't let Daryl finish that question, he took his hand and dragged him to their room.

"Paul… Harlan said you should be careful."

"And we'll be careful," he said, giving Daryl a little push.

The archer hit the bed and fell, sitting on it. Paul stood in front of him, placing himself between his knees, took off the green sweater he wore and tossed it to the side, revealing the white t-shirt he was wearing under it.

"Is this your way of takin' things easy?" Daryl asked.

Paul took his face with both hands and slammed his lips against his. A hoarse groan left Daryl's throat instantly.

"I know you're going to be nice to me, archer," Paul said between kisses, "unless you don't want to do it."

A deep growl escaped from the archer's lips. "Fuckin' hell, Paul, I'd fuck you into the wall if I wasn't so worried 'bout you, or the trailer collapsing."

Daryl noticed Paul's smile against his lips and they kissed again. Their tongues brushing in an almost desperate dance. Daryl moaned silently against Paul's mouth and slid his arms around his waist until he placed his hands at the small of his back, pulling him closer. His fingers slipped under the fabric of his shirt, touching his soft skin, then grabbed the garment slightly and, as Paul took it off, Daryl couldn't help but look at the two scars that now marked his abdomen.

The archer felt it hard to breathe, suddenly. He closed his eyes for a second and tried to brush off the image of all that blood from his head. He leaned forward to rest his lips on those marks, and heard Paul's erratic breathing as he buried his fingers in his hair. Then he rose from the bed, brushing his body against Paul's, kissing him again.

Without separating his mouth from Daryl's, Paul began to unbutton his shirt, then opened it and slid his hands up his shoulders, pushing the shirt down his arms until it fell to the floor. Daryl felt cold but that feeling disappeared as soon as Paul put his arms around him and began to kiss his neck, jaw and face. Slow, sensual kisses, as he brushed every inch of his skin with his lips. Daryl pressed his body against his, noticing his breathing more and more agitated and groaned deeply when Paul caught his earlobe with his teeth.

Daryl's pulse picked up immediately, as it always did when he was with Paul, though in that moment he felt a steady thrum of anticipation running through his veins that he wasn't sure he'd be able to control.

Paul slid his hands up and down Daryl's chest and arms, and then wrapped his arms around his neck, kissing him again. A soft, tempting kiss, that begged for the archer to leave his worries aside and let himself go.

"Fuck it…" the archer snapped with a hoarse groan.

Daryl grabbed Paul's face with both hands and caught his mouth again in a fiery kiss, sliding his tongue between Paul's lips, claiming them ravenously. Paul groaned intensely and the archer dropped his hands, grabbing Paul's ass and pressing against him until it was difficult for them to breathe.

"Damn it, Daryl…" Paul stammered.

However, neither of them broke that hungry kiss. Daryl groaned as Paul shifted his weight and moved to press his crotch against his. Daryl felt his excitement growing rapidly. He wanted to touch and be touched— _fuck_ he wanted him so bad that his hands shook.

An intense growl made Daryl's throat tremble as Paul pulled away from him and took a couple of steps to the simple bedside table they had, and pulled out a bottle of lube and a condom from one of the drawers. Daryl watched him do this but couldn't wait any longer, so he came up and wrapped his arms around him, pressing Paul's back against his chest and sucking and pinching the contour of his shoulder with his teeth. Paul lifted his chin and rested his head against Daryl's neck, closing his eyes, moaning.

Daryl whispered something and slid one arm down Paul's waist until he covered, with the palm of his hand, the palpable erection growing beneath his gray trousers, the ones he usually wore when there were only the two of them. Paul sighed, his warm breath brushing against Daryl's cheek. The archer rubbed his groin slowly, feeling him and listening to the soft sounds coming from his lips.

"Daryl…"

Just the warmth of his voice was enough to make his blood boil. His heart pounded hard against Paul's back until he turned around to look into his eyes. Those crystalline eyes that had become almost as dark as the night.

As their mouths fused again, Daryl noticed that Paul's fingers were now working on his belt and trousers. Daryl grunted under his breath as Paul lowered the zipper and a hand snaked inside his pants to touch him. Daryl was so hard it hurt.

Paul's hands then began to slide down the archer's hips, pushing down his trousers and pulling Daryl closer to him at the same time. Their mouths brushing and enticing, while Daryl's tongue slid along Paul's lower lip. The archer let out a suffocating breath as Paul's fingers wrapped around his erection.

Paul moved his hand slowly along his length as Daryl took off his own trousers, tossing them aside, not taking his eyes off Paul's. _God_ he was sure he was going to go crazy.

With a slight murmur, Daryl bent to bite Paul's neck. The scout gasped, though his hand didn't stop sliding up and down on him. The archer closed his eyes for a moment, the heat growing inside him like the flame of a match. Then his fingers gripped the waistband of Paul's pants.

"If we keep playin', I swear I'm gonna explode right here."

The sound of Paul's laugh filled his ears. "You're so impatient."

"It's your fault…"

Paul laughed again, wrapping his arms around Daryl's neck, letting their bodies touch again. He kissed his face as the archer slid his gray pants down.

Only a few seconds later they were on the bed, completely naked, bare skin brushing against each other just as their lips did. The groans and gasps filled the room with the same warmth coming from their bodies.

Barely braking the kiss, Paul turned on his stomach and stretched out his arm to take the lube he had left on the nightstand.

"Do you need me to explain how this works?" he asked, and though he had tried to joke, his voice actually sounded agitated.

"Fuck you, Monroe."

"Exactly…"

Daryl grunted, putting all the weight of his body on him, kissing his neck and taking the bottle from his hands. Then he pulled away slightly and Paul turned to look at him over his shoulder.

"You sure?" Daryl asked.

"I'm more worried about you than about me."

"Don't be… sex is sex, right?"

"Yeah, sex is sex…" Paul replied, a trace of bitterness in his voice. Then he put his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes.

Daryl didn't ignore the tone in his voice, so he leaned forward and kissed his cheek tenderly.

"Be gentle, okay? It's been a while since the last time," Paul said in a whisper.

Daryl let out a choked breath, his heart racing into his chest. It had been a long time since he'd done this, too, and he was sure that the sex he had experienced couldn't match what he knew he was going to share with Paul.

He didn't want to think about it too much, so he opened the bottle of lube and then slid his slick fingers between Paul's legs as he bent to stroke the scout's cheek with his nose. Paul's fingers clutched the pillow. Daryl placed a hand on Paul's hip, holding him as he moved a finger between his buttocks, leaving a thin trace of lubricant on his skin. He could feel Paul shuddering beneath his touch and that made his stomach tighten. It was not long since he had experienced this moment of anticipation, when he had waited for Paul to do what he was about to do—Daryl didn't wait any longer and slid a finger inside him.

Paul squirmed under his weight, pushing his hips back, and sinking his head even more on the pillow. Daryl felt his own breath catch in his throat. He felt so weird doing something like this, something so new to him, but at the same time seeing Paul's reaction managed to send a wave of heat rolling through his body. Daryl moved his hand, caressing him, while Paul closed his eyes tightly and bit his lips. Daryl was not sure if he was hurting him or if Paul was just trying to drown out the moans that were struggling to get out of his mouth.

"You good?"

Daryl was about to stop what he was doing, but Paul stretched his arm back and gripped his wrist tightly so he couldn't move it, as if he had been able to foresee his intentions.

"I'm fine…"

Those words were enough for Daryl's stomach to clench, and almost without thinking, he slipped another finger inside him. They both gasped at the same time. Paul released Daryl's wrist and pushed his hips back into his hand, while Daryl stroked his back with the other.

Daryl thought he would explode just by watching Paul squirm between the sheets beneath him, and he knew that he wouldn't be able to last much longer if they kept that game. So he leaned forward again, brushing his lips along Paul's cheekbone and grabbing the condom off the nightstand, unwrapping it and putting it on quickly.

He could feel Paul's impatient eyes on him. With one hand Daryl pressed Paul's lower back and with the other he guided himself and pushed, holding his breath, gasping as he slid inside him. He closed his eyes and listened to Paul's heavy breath. Daryl felt himself tremble as he slowly sank into him. And for a moment he thought he would faint right there. So he stretched out over Paul's body, pressing him into the bed.

Paul moved beneath him and Daryl took a deep breath as he clung to his hips and began to rock slowly. The scout roared with pleasure, and Daryl shivered as he settled all his weight over Paul.

"Fuck…" Paul moaned.

The scout slid his hands to the sides, grabbing the sheets. Daryl shifted slightly and placed each hand over Paul's, interlacing his fingers with his. Then he began to move slowly, ignoring the involuntary sounds coming out of his own mouth.

Paul gasped against the sheets under him, unintentionally struggling against the pressure of Daryl's body and the hands holding him, although not really trying to be free of them. He pushed his hips back to meet Daryl every time he buried into him.

Daryl closed his eyes and gave a slow groan. His body shook and tightened every time he pushed himself back in, and he was sure that that slow pace would drive him crazy.

Paul tried to speak, but the words didn't come out of his mouth. He moaned long and hard, as he tangled his fingers into the sheets, and those sounds almost made Daryl lose control. The archer had to stop rocking to catch a deep breath, then he pushed in again, slowly, fighting the urge to crush Paul against the mattress.

And again, as he had done so many times, as if he could really read his damn mind, Paul turned his head to look at him over his shoulder.

"Okay… forget that shit about being gentle…" he gasped.

Grinding his teeth, Daryl dropped the weight of his body on him, burying his head in the hollow of Paul's neck, and increased the speed of his hips. Paul groaned deeply and Daryl thought that his body would melt into his at any moment. He felt each pore of his skin burn, and that heat was increasing at the same time as the rhythm of his thrusts.

The archer bit the back of Paul's shoulder and that brought a sharp gasp from him. Daryl rose slightly, resting his palms on the mattress, and pushed harder and harder. Paul's groans, and his own, grew louder each time he buried himself inside him. The throbbing sound of their breaths and their bodies slapping together was the only thing that could be heard in the small room.

Daryl felt his body begin to lose pace and his thrusts became increasingly irregular. He knew he couldn't last much longer, the fire growing inside him was becoming scorching and unbearable.

"Paul…" he whimpered as he felt the tension inside him become almost painful.

"No… not yet… please," Paul pleaded.

Daryl let out a choked breath, and felt Paul move beneath him, sitting up, pressing his back against Daryl's chest and forcing him to kneel and almost sit on the mattress, while Paul sat down on his lap, letting his entire length sink into him.

"Holy shit… Paul!" the archer hissed, sure that he would lose his mind right there.

Without giving him time to settle, Paul began to move. Daryl groaned and gasped, wrapping Paul in his arms, holding him tight, while he didn't stop moving over him, faster and faster, taking control of the situation.

Paul dropped his head back against Daryl's shoulder, and the archer kissed his cheek and neck. Paul moved his face slightly so their lips met in a wet kiss, accompanied by their erratic and uncontrolled breaths.

Daryl knew there was no turning back, his body trembling and tightening. He was about to explode any time now. So he slid a hand down Paul's belly and wrapped it around his erection, sliding his fingers over it almost at the same pace Paul did.

The scout stammered a few incomprehensible words, and leaned slightly forward, placing his palms on the mattress. Neither slowed their frenetic pace as they thrust against the other.

Daryl closed his eyes when he felt that wave of pleasure, threatening to break his body into pieces from inside, until he could no longer contain himself and he cried as he came hard and fast. His hand, however, didn't stop sliding over Paul's dick, who finally let himself go, groaning painfully as he spilled over Daryl's fingers.

They both dropped onto the mattress and stayed there, hugging each other as they regained their breath.

"You should clean yourself up…" Paul said between breaths, after a while.

"You too…"

"Look what you've done… the bed is a mess…"

"It's your fault…"

Paul laughed. "You know what? When I was a kid I didn't have many friends because mothers used to think I was a bad influence… you should be careful."

Daryl pulled him even closer, pressing his chest against Paul's back and inhaling his skin, a mixture of sweat and the soap of the shower he had taken only a moment ago. He thought he could spend the rest of his life just like that, hugging him, listening to his breathing, because that meant he was alive—both of them were, and that was all that mattered to him.

* * *

Daryl carefully opened the door to the small room they shared in the trailer, and crept inside, followed by _Cat_. The animal jumped onto the bed, walking shamelessly around the body curled up between the sheets. However, the man didn't move.

It had been a long time since sunrise; the archer had awakened at dawn, as usual, and he had surprised himself when the first thing he did, after opening his eyes, was to smile. He smiled because for the first time since he'd known him, Paul was snuggled up beside him, sleeping peacefully.

Daryl had risen from the bed, careful not to wake him up, and after eating something, he had left the trailer to join in the colony's constant activity.

There were black clouds in the sky and an icy breeze blowing up and down, that nevertheless didn't seem to deter his neighbors who worked hard, as they did every day. He had heard some claiming that the first snow of the season would be greeting them sooner than later, although for the moment only the rain had managed to disturb their typically dry environment.

After helping with some tasks and talking to Maggie, Daryl returned to the trailer to see if Paul had woken up, and he shook his head with a satisfied smile when he saw Paul was still completely asleep.

He squatted down beside the bed and rested his elbows on the mattress as he studied that almost unknown side of Paul. So unknown that if it hadn't been for the perceptible, though slow, movement beneath the sheets, Daryl was almost certain he wouldn't have resisted putting a finger under his nose to see if he was still breathing.

However, Paul's need for rest didn't seem to bother _Cat_ , who lied down right next to his head, pulling on Paul's hair as he tried to settle.

Paul frowned and opened his eyes slowly, then blinked repeatedly and finally fixed his sleepy eyes on Daryl's.

"Good morning, sleepyhead."

Paul's throat growled with a muffled moan, then rubbed his face and eyes. "What are you doing there? Don't tell me you're one of _those_?"

"One of _those_ , what?"

"One of those weird guys who like to watch people while they sleep."

Daryl smiled. "Jus' came in to check that you were still alive, and get you out of bed."

"What time is it?"

"Almost noon."

Paul's eyes widened. "What! Why didn't you wake me up?" he asked, shocked as he tried to sit up.

"Are you fuckin' kiddin' me?"

Paul sank back onto the mattress with a heavy sigh. "Get in bed with me…" he suddenly said in a tempting whisper.

"No…"

"Come on… just five minutes…"

Daryl laughed. "No…"

"You're boring."

"Maybe…" the archer then took a deep breath. "How d'ya feel?"

"Good, I'm good… _really_ good, actually."

The two smiled in silence and didn't speak for a while, they just looked at each other. Then Daryl noticed a change in Paul's face, the smile that curled his lips disappeared and in his eyes he could now sense a strange and different shine.

"I love you," he said, barely a whisper.

Nothing in the archer's body seemed to work, suddenly. It was as if his heart had stopped beating, as if the blood had stopped running through his veins and the air no longer filled his lungs. They were just words, he told himself, words he didn't need, he never had. Maybe because he had grown used to being surrounded by people who had no reason to say them. He didn't need them because he had become accustomed to the acts that expressed more than any words could. He had never expected to hear them and had never expected to have to say them, either. And he hadn't expected them from Paul because—again—he didn't need them. Daryl knew that he loved him without the need to say it out loud—but he had done it, and then he had taken his hand and closed his eyes as if he was not expecting any kind of response from him. And at that moment his heart had started to work again, and the blood flowed renewed through his veins and his lungs swelled with new air.

"I love you, too…" he said without even being aware that the words had come out of his mouth.

Paul opened his eyes again, smiling broadly, and Daryl did the same. Then he leaned forward to place his lips on the scout's forehead.

"You hafta get outta bed, Monroe."

"Are you sure we can't stay here five more minutes?"

"No. I've talked to Maggie and some patrols saw a large group of walkers close to Hilltop. I think it's a good time for you to start gettin' back in shape."

"I don't need to get back in shape, I'm fine," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"You do… and I can also teach you some tricks."

"Excuse me? Teach me _what_? I could kill more walkers than you, blindfolded."

"No way."

Paul got out of bed and began to get dressed. "Do you wanna bet?"

Daryl burst into laughter. "Oh, c'mon!"

"Do you wanna bet?" he repeated.

"This is ridiculous."

Paul stared firmly at him while he pulled a shirt on over his head.

"Okay, okay… let's bet," the archer said, finally.

"Good, let me think—okay, the one who loses will have to cook all week."

"I'm gonna beat yer ass, Monroe…"

"Don't be so sure, archer—or should I call you _chef_."

"Shut up!" he said laughing. "You jus' woke up and my head already hurts—you ready?"

"I'm ready."

"Okay… let's go."


End file.
